


Who's The Boss

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Who's The Boss [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Greg is John's Uncle, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft is Sherlock's guardian, The Upper Hand BBC show, Who's the Boss, Younger selves, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4769579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barely into his 20s, Greg Lestrade needs a job and a better life for his 11 yo nephew John than growing up in Brooklyn, NY. Mycroft Holmes works for the British Consulate (already unreplaceable at only 23) in New York City. While Mummy and Father are away, Mycroft is the formal guardian for his 8yo brother Sherlock.</p><p>Greg needs a job. Mycroft needs a housekeeper.  Hijinx ensue.</p><p>a BBC Sherlock/Who's the Boss fusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let's Get Out Of This Place

**Author's Note:**

> taking serious liberties with both plots. I hope you enjoy this 9 week television season, part of the [Fall TV Season](http://falltvseasonsherlock.tumblr.com) Check out all the amazing fusions.
> 
> I'll post every Thursday for 9 weeks. Pray for me. :D
> 
> in which John and Sherlock are best friends and Greg and Mycroft have no idea how to become more than what they are. #noAngst #JustFluff
> 
> Who's The Boss was a 30minute comedy that aired on ABC TV in the mid-late 1980s. A man applies for a job as a housekeeper to a very successful businesswoman/divorced mother of one living in Connecticut. He's a widower with one daughter. Sexual tension, role reversal, parental issues. it was my favorite show when I was 20+. if you'd like to know more, you can check [Resource](http://www.wtbr.com) You'll recognize Tony Danza as the housekeeper. Judith Light as Angela. and a very young Alyssa Milano as Tony's daughter.
> 
> HUGE TY to gowerstreet who told me there was a British version called The Upper Hand!!

Greg loaded the last of the packing cartons into his van, praying that once, just this once, the handle wouldn’t come off the rear door. He didn’t have time to screw around—he needed to be on time and make a good first impression.

“It’s a great day for a new beginning, hey John?” Greg said to his nephew, looking up at the few wispy clouds that dotted the autumn sky.

“A nice house with a yard? And trees? And baseball on actual fields with actual bases?” John kicked the 3rd base tree, knocking imaginary mud out of his cleats. He cocked his Mets’ cap and took a few practice swings with his baseball bat. “It’s outta here! Watson strokes a grand slam!” John punched the air and said, “Hell yeah, it’s a great day for a new beginning.”

“Listen, sport. That black eye is bad enough, but don’t let my new boss hear an 11 year old kid cursing. It’s not—mannerly. Refined.” Greg felt the pang of uncertainty in his stomach. Words like mannerly and refined weren’t usually in his vocabulary.

“You weren’t made for that fancy life in Connecticut, Greg Lestrade,” a Brooklyn born and raised voice called from the upstairs window, floating down to them like concrete blocks. Their upstairs neighbor leaned out the window, her hair twirling in the breeze.

“Maybe I wasn’t, Molly Hooper. But John deserves better than coming home with a black eye.”

Greg opened the passenger door, realizing that his rusty, un-painted van would probably be as out of place in Fairfield as his hoity-toity employer would be in Brooklyn. Maybe-employer. Still had to get the final okay.

“I got a black eye, but you shoulda seen them, Uncle Greg. I got them good,” John said as he climbed into the front passenger seat. “They’ll remember John Watson!”

“They? There was more than one?” Greg shook his head at his nephew’s excitement and slammed the door. “See Molly? I gotta go.”

“But you love Brooklyn—” She tried one last time, leaning a bit further over the window sill. She wasn’t above flashing him cleavage from her plunging, scoop-neck shirt.

“Yeah. I do. But I love my nephew more,” Greg said with a smile. He pointed at Molly and blew her a kiss good-bye.

Molly sent one back. “I’ll be here when you’re ready for that date you promised me!”

Greg waved as he drove away, headed for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and their new life.

 

~~~

Mycroft’s slippered toe prodded the litter on Sherlock’s bedroom floor. School uniform trousers Sherlock had shed as quickly as possible. Mycroft counted at least 4 pair. Myriad socks in different color and sizes, but not a match among the lot. Soiled uniform polos…Good Lord, was that blood dribbled down the placket of one shirt? Mycroft sighed and added the blood to his mental list of things he needed to ask his brother.

How could one 8-year old boy create such havoc? Candy wrappers. Crayons. Tests splashed with red ink. Mycroft reached down for a paper with a bright red 45 circled at the top and saw a pink disciplinary slip hidden underneath.

Mycroft knew well enough that one referral meant more. Where would that little twat hide them? By the time Mycroft searched Sherlock’s room, he found six failed tests, three pink slips, and an envelope addressed to Mr. Mycroft Holmes from the Dean of Students. And it was only the first month of school.

Christ. What else would he find? Mycroft pulled the bedspread’s hem up and lowered himself to his knees.

“For the love of…” Mycroft yelled as he ground his knee on a Lego brick. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes! If you don’t clean up this room today…”

Mycroft didn’t finish his threat. He never finished his threats, which (Mycroft knew) was why Sherlock never did what he was supposed to do.

Since his parents dumped…sent, Mycroft corrected himself. Sent. Since his parents sent Sherlock to America to live with Mycroft while they gallivanted through the Amazon Rain Forest studying God only knows what about God only knows whom…He hadn’t had a minute to himself between commuting to New York City each day, his job with the British Consulate, and then Sherlock and his foolishness…

Mycroft’s teeth bit his bottom lip. He tried deep-breathing, to center himself as Sherlock’s therapist had suggested. _“You must present as a calm, rational person to reach your brother. He values that above all. Yelling and threatening will only encourage him to act out. You are his guardian now.”_

He stood up and straightened his dressing gown, retying the silk belt into a precise square knot. Yes. A housekeeper. That would resolve some of these issues. Mrs. Hudson had said she would spearhead the search. He added _Step next door and ask Mrs. Hudson to update Operation Clean House_ to his mental list.

The doorbell chimed, the beginning notes of _Für Elise_ echoing through the silent house.

Mycroft held his breath. It was quiet. Too quiet. What the hell was Sherlock doing instead of getting ready for the school jitney? He calmed himself long enough to call down the stairs. “Sherlock, did you hear the doorbell?”

“Yes.” The voice rose up the stairs.

That’s all he was going to get from Sherlock. Mycroft clenched and released his fists in his robe pocket. Breathe in. Breathe out. “Please see who’s at the door.”

He heard Sherlock place something heavy onto the table. “A man,” Sherlock said a moment later.

Mycroft knew he should have checked for himself and saved himself the aggravation. He came down the stairs a bit harder than was strictly necessary, but it felt good to be petty. _A housekeeper would answer the door, he thought. And make tea and maybe scones._

Sherlock sat on the couch, watching the terrarium in his lap. He was focused on Mr. Baggins, his foul, vile snake. The sooner that left this house, the happier Mycroft would be. If he sat down on that snake one more time…

“I’m seriously considering releasing you into the wild with Mr. Baggins when the time comes,” Mycroft said, his hand resting on the doorknob. “With the state of your room, I believe you will feel right at home.”

Sherlock’s eyes never left the snake. “Doorbell,” he said, as the chimes rang again.

Mycroft threw open the front door, if only to have the chimes stop at this ungodly hour.

A man stood at his door, but clearly had turned to leave. _Nervous? Seconding guessing his decision to ring the bell? Worn clothing, several years old, but well cared for. One hole in his jeans had been mended by someone with needle skill, the repair barely noticeable, by someone who had taken time to ensure it wouldn’t be obvious. A hole in his shirt had been stitched—using that word loosely. Staples would have been tidier. Something had changed. Something—recent? A death most likely. A sturdy man, muscular, fit, handsome—_ Mycroft started at the realization that he was wearing only his dressing gown. He scrunched the gown closed at his neck, hiding the vee of skin that had been showing. “May I help you?”

 _New York accent—Bronx? No. Brooklyn. Nice smile. No. Great smile._ “I beg your pardon?”

The man’s smile faded several watts. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. “I’m Greg Lestrade. I’m here about the job.”

Mycroft shook himself from his silent deductions to answer. “I’m afraid you have the wrong address. I’m looking for a housekeeper.” He stepped back to close the door, but Lestrade’s hand darted forward, keeping it open.

“Yep, I’m your man. Strong enough to move furniture but gentle with your dishes.” Greg rolled the short sleeve of his t-shirt up to his shoulder and flexed his bicep. _God, why did I do that? Leave. I should just leave now. Go back home. Molly was right. I don’t belong here…_

Mycroft tried to swallow, but his mouth seemed unusually dry at that moment. _A housekeeper just should not be that arousing,_ he thought, wishing he’d worn his terry robe instead of this thin, revealing silk dressing gown.

Greg took Mycroft’s silence as another denial. He swallowed hard, praying his stomach wouldn’t revolt. “Mrs. Hudson interviewed me yesterday, and said that the job was mine except for one small thing.”

Mycroft scrubbed his eyes and sighed. “What would that be?” He hesitated to ask; with Mrs. Hudson in charge, it might be literally anything.

Greg was absolutely certain Mr. Holmes could hear his heart pounding. He couldn’t screw this up because he needed this job, this new life for John. He used his patented puppy-dog face, just a hint of a pout around his mouth. “ _You_ just have to say yes.”

Mycroft stared, torn between wanting to explore that pout in minute detail and wanting to decimate Mrs. Hudson for this clusterfuck.

The jingle jangle of a bike bell pierced the air. “I see you’ve met Mr. Lestrade!” Mrs. Hudson chirped.

“Mrs. Hudson, how many times have I asked you to knock before you enter my home?” Mycroft’s shoulders slumped. _When had he lost control? When?_

“I don’t know, dear. I’ve stopped counting.” Mrs. Hudson winked at him and dropped the kickstand to park the bike. “Mr. Lestrade, I’m so glad you made it.” She pecked his cheek. “When do you move in?”

“Move in?” Mycroft squawked. “Mrs. Hudson, I asked for a female housekeeper. It will look—untoward if a man moves in here alone.” He could imagine the gossip from his neighbors if a handsome, athletic, bad-boy man moved into his house…

“Mycroft, shame on you.” Mrs. Hudson batted Mycroft’s shoulder with her sunhat. “This is 2015. Men can be housekeepers, and two men can live together as friends, even if one is gay.” She tsk’d at his old-fashioned mores and smiled at Greg.

Mycroft banged his forehead against the open door. _Maybe the Earth will open and swallow me. I’ve tried to be a good person, God. To be kind…_

“Plus,” Mrs. Hudson added.

_No, no, no, no, no. Dear God, please make her stop talking now._

“He’s not alone. Didn’t you tell him about John?”

“You’re married?” Mycroft tucked the pang of disappointment in a back room of his mind-palace to examine later.

“No, John’s my nephew. He’s really terrific. You’ll love him. Let me get him from the van.” Lestrade dashed from the doorstep.

Mycroft noticed two things simultaneously. Lestrade could sprint and he looked damn good doing it, and there was no way he would allow Lestrade’s van, in desperate need of paint and a new muffler, to park in front of his home.

“Mrs. Hudson. What have you done? And why did you tell him that I’m—.”

“Gay, dear. Gay. It’s not a crime. Besides,” she waggled her eyebrows for Mycroft’s benefit. “He’s very handsome, and you never go on dates.” She held out her hand to stop his rebuttal. “Ever. It’s quite sad really.”

“I don’t want a man in my house,” Mycroft said, his voice waivered, less sure now.

“That’s exactly what Sherlock needs, with the hours you work.” Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms over her chest. “And you could do with a man in your life. And he’s all man, if you know what I mean.” Her voice dropped with the innuendo. This time, he didn’t even look for the waggle of her brows.

“Everyone knows what you mean, Mrs. Hudson.” Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. In his mind, he saw Control disappearing in his rear-view mirror. He waved it good-bye.

“This is John.” Greg pushed his nephew into the house and followed him inside. “John, this is Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

“I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes,” John said. He shoved his hand out, and when Mycroft took it, John shook it like he’d seen in cartoons, pumping Mycroft’s arm up and down almost as high as John’s chin. “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you, John.” Mycroft wrenched his hand from John’s grip, rubbing circulation back into it.

“I’ll bet you have great trees for climbing and a nice big backyard for baseball.” John slid his baseball cap off his head, and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. He’d forgotten Greg had said that would be the mannerly thing to do.

“Careful, young man,” Mycroft said, his raised eyebrow cautious but playful. “Or I may think you’re flattering me.”

“Yes, sir, that is the point.” John slapped his hand over his mouth as he remembered that was supposed to be a secret.

Greg pushed past John and said, “This must be your brother, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson told me all about him.”

Greg perched on the couch next to Sherlock, who still held the snake terrarium on his lap. “I’m Greg. Who’s this?”

Mycroft closed the door a big harder than he intended. “Sherlock, haven’t I told you to take that snake back to your room.”

“Not today you haven’t.” Sherlock smiled, knowing he’d bested his brother once again.

“Must you be so literal, brother?”

“Yes.”

“May I call you Sherlock?” Greg asked, reaching into the terrarium. He stroked his finger down the green snake’s back, watching the little boy out of the corner of his eye. He saw the smallest nod.

“Mr. Baggins likes you,” Sherlock whispered to Greg. “Usually he bites people who try to pet him.”

Greg pulled his hand out of the terrarium and sat on it, in case Mr. Baggins decided that he’d made a mistake and he really did want to bite Greg.

Sherlock pretended not to notice Greg’s rapid breathing. “Don’t worry, though. He’s not _that_ venomous.”

“Good. Good.” Greg backed away half a scoot, putting more space between him and Mr. Baggins. “Sherlock, Mycroft asked you to take the snake to your room, right?” Sherlock hesitated and then decided against lying. “Think about this: who pays your allowance?”

Sherlock studied the snake, buying himself time. “Sorry Mr. Baggins. Mycroft has control of my trust fund allowance. All you give me is old skin you’ve shed.”

On his way to the staircase, Sherlock shouldered Mycroft out of the way. When Mycroft stepped back, Sherlock realized there was someone else in the room besides the two boring adults. A blond boy, older than Sherlock, but short for his age (related to Greg but too many disparate features to be a direct link, so nephew) with the black eye (no other visible bruises, must have won the fight) and the baseball cap peeking out as the boy stretched to see what was in the terrarium (along with the streak of dirt on the inner left leg of his denim trousers from sliding means baseball fanatic).

“Who are you?” At 8 years old, Sherlock stood as tall as John, but where John was tan and rugged from hours spent outdoors, Sherlock was pale and willowy, like a sapling that hadn’t quite grown secure with its roots.

“John. John Watson.” Uncle Greg didn’t tell him there’d be a kid. Should he shake his hand, too? “Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes. You want to play for the Mets. You play baseball on dirt, but you’d rather play on grass. And even though you’re left handed, you bat right.”

“That was amazing.” John didn’t try to keep the awe from his voice.

“Most people don’t think so,” Sherlock looked into the tank as he said it, afraid to look at John.

“What do they say, then?”

“Piss off!”

John giggled at the bad word and Sherlock giggled because of John. “Would you like to see where my snake lives?” Sherlock ran up the remainder of the steps with John on his heels.

“They seem to like each other,” Mrs. Hudson said, speaking about the boys, but not only about the boys.

“Look Mr. Holmes,” Greg swallowed hard. He tried to keep the stress and nerves out of his voice, but failed. “I need a job and my nephew needs a nice place to grow up. Can you give us a try? Then, if it doesn’t work out, then no hard feelings.” Greg offered his hand as his bond.

“It’s fine with me.” Sherlock called downstairs, his voice retaining its posh, school-boy pronunciation. He had no trace of an American accent yet.

Mrs. Hudson elbowed Mycroft in his side, urging him to respond. “Yes, alright,” Mycroft agreed, shaking Greg’s hand, enjoying the warm weight of it. “We can clean out the guest room for John, and your room will be at the top of the stairs, next to mine. I do hope that won’t be awkward.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve taken boxing lessons. I’ll beat you off.” Greg winked in an attempt to tease his new boss.

Mrs. Hudson held back her snigger until she couldn’t any longer. It spilled out of her, and when she saw Mycroft’s face, mouth open and eyes agape, she laughed harder.

“What? What did I say?” In a panic, Greg replayed the conversation in his head. “Oh God, I meant, I meant…” He reached out to Mycroft, grabbing his arm with both hands trying to apologize.

Mycroft stared at the hands on his arm, strong, warm, work-man’s hands. Nice hands.

Greg pulled them back like they were on fire. “Forget I said that,” he whispered, his voice pained.

 _I’ll probably never forget that you said that,_ Mycroft thought. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was right. He was only 23. He needed something else in his life besides commuting and work.

Mycroft shook Greg’s hand. “I shall agree to a one-week trial.”

Sherlock ran down the stairs, with John’s feet pounding right behind. Sherlock skidded up to Mycroft. “John just informed me how he received his black eye.” He cupped his hand and stood on his tip-toes trying to reach Mycroft’s ear. “Is it too late to change my vote?”

Greg laughed as Mycroft nodded, already wondering if he’d made a mistake. “Yes, brother, it is. Be kind, or I’ll have John share your room.”

“Really?” The boys’ voices tumbled over each other, a mixture of hope and excitement. They ran back upstairs, this time John leading the way.

Maybe Mrs. Hudson was correct. Maybe this was exactly what they needed.


	2. I Should Tell Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One's in the tub. One wants the tub. Is it bad timing or incredibly amazing timing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sneaking this in under my deadline :)  
> I hope to have another small chapter up tomorrow or Saturday.
> 
> This chapter's title comes from the Broadway show, Rent. Roger should tell Mimi that he is HIV positive, but can't bring himself to tell her knowing she may run away.

“Gregory, over these past few weeks, your work has been exemplary.”

Greg beamed at Mycroft’s praise. Not just because of living in this beautiful house. Not just the lovely yard. Not even for Mycroft generously enrolling John in the private day school that Sherlock attended. No. He was happy that he’d met Mycroft’s exacting standards.

Home from school, Sherlock and John blew through the front door, knocking into Mycroft. Greg grabbed both boys by their jacket neck and held them in place as they struggled to get away.

“Apologize for your appalling lack of manners,” Greg said, yanking on the two collars.

“Appalling lack of manners?” John scoffed. “You don’t even sound like you anymore.”

“Apologize.” Greg warned the boys with another yank.

“Sorrrrrrryyyyy, Mycroft.” John and Sherlock singsonged their alleged apology.

Greg released the two and returned his attention to Mycroft. “I’m sorry. You were saying?”

“I was saying, your work has been excellent…”

“Especially the dinners.” Sherlock shed his backpack and uniform blazer where he stood in the foyer, stepping over them to get to the kitchen.

“Uncle Greg is an okay cook.” John teased, hanging his backpack and uniform blazer on the coat rack.

“When you arrived on my doorstep, you asked for a trial period.” Mycroft cleared his throat to give himself time to find the best words. “To my utter surprise, and what I am sure will eventually become my dismay, I find that I should like to offer you the position in my house.”

John punched Sherlock in the shoulder instead of hugging him. “I get to stay!”

“Yay,” Sherlock said, less than enthused. He rubbed his sore shoulder. “Do I get a say in the matter?”

Greg pulled Sherlock in for a side hug and kissed the curls, trying to hide the smile on his face. “No, you’ve got us whether you want us or not, bad cooking and all.”

"You are an excellent cook." Mycroft patted his stomach as a compliment.

"Mycroft gained 3 pounds this week." Sherlock side-eyed his brother to see whether his comment was a direct hit. John snickered at Sherlock’s snide prediction, but Greg shut them down.

"Sherlock, that is no way to speak to your brother. Apologize please." Greg stood between Sherlock and the kitchen door, his feet set apart and arms folded across his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled, “But I’m right.”

Greg growled at Sherlock, who then caved in. "Sorry, Mycroft.” Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes and decided he would get even.

"Now pick up your backpack and blazer and put them where they belong. When you're done, your snack is waiting on the table."

Without a word or fuss Sherlock did as Greg asked. John waited patiently and they raced into the kitchen, vanishing behind the swinging door.

"I don't know how you did that." Mycroft shook his head in wonder, staring at his brother’s jacket and bag hanging on the coatrack. "He never does as I ask."

"It’s because I’m not his brother," Greg said, stifling his laugh. "You wait. He hasn’t figured out which of my buttons to push yet. Besides you do a lot for him that I can’t. You make him think, give him problems to wrestle with. I just cook and clean."

"Please don't qualify your worth with _just_. What you do is vital and allows me to do what I do. Since you’ve arrived, I know that Sherlock will be safe in my absence and not blow up the house with one of his experiments."

Greg stood taller, more proud. He hadn’t thought of it like that. "Hey yeah. You're right. Just like Peggy Lee sang..." Greg held his feather duster as a microphone. "You bring home the bacon and I'll fry it up in a pan. And never ever let you forget you're a man."

So caught up in singing, Greg didn't realize he’d just hit on Mycroft.

Mycroft's eyes sparkled; obviously, he’d realized. "That's quite an offer."

"I always seem to say the wrong thing around you.” Greg’s face flushed pink, but he didn’t look away.

“You do realize those aren't the actual lyrics. They're from a tawdry perfume commercial from the ‘80s."

"I always heard my mom sing it. So much for my Peggy Lee crush.”

“I’m sure you have an extensive repertoire you could sing for us one evening.” Mycroft smiled shyly at Greg. “I mean, if you’d want to.”

“I’d totally want to, yeah.”

They stared at each other. Uncomfortable. Awkward. Sexually-charged.

Mycroft wished, really really wished, that Greg wasn’t straight. Because he thought this could be something good.

Greg wished, really really wished, that he’d told Mycroft he was gay. Because he thought this could be something amazing. But before he said or did something stupid, Greg broke the silence. “I’m sure it’s nothing like three pounds.”

Mycroft blinked, trying to follow Greg’s thought. “Oh yes. No. Not three. But your meals are quite delicious.” He adjusted his tie and waistcoat, tugging at the points to remove any wrinkles. “However, before you feed the boys, I’d like you to come upstairs.” Mycroft turned, his posture and step regal, as if that would put out of their minds their moment in the foyer.

He wanted to forget Greg singing “…never ever let you forget you're a man.” He wanted to forget how long it’d been since he’d been in a relationship, or hell, had sex. He wanted to forget how attractive Greg was in his t-shirt and jeans and did they have to be so obscenely tight?

A chorus of “Ooooh you’re in trouble!” and “Come upstairs? That’s what she said!!” reached Greg from the kitchen. _“Beat them. I’m going to beat them both when I get back downstairs.”_

Mycroft waited at the top of the stairs, his hand resting on a doorknob. “As I said, you have done a better job than I ever could have imagined. The house is spotless...”

Greg preened. The feather duster tucked into his back pocket reminded Mycroft of a peacock.

“Except for my bedroom.” Mycroft swung the door open to reveal…

“What a mess.” Greg slapped his hand over his mouth. _Oh my god, oh my god, that was supposed to be a thought bubble._

Greg’d seen baseball locker rooms that were cleaner than Mycroft’s bedroom. Shirts, trousers, random socks stripped off and flung everywhere. “It looks like Sherlock’s room did when I started!”

Mycroft shot him a dirty look and motioned for him to enter. “Yes. That would be the problem. Please come in.”

He imagined inviting Greg in for a different reason. _Please come in,_ he’d say, _his mouth pressed against Greg’s neck, his hands roaming those muscled arms and shoulders. Dragging Greg into the room until they fell onto Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft would crawl on top of Greg, straddle him, roll his hips so their cocks brushed together..._

“But it’s your room…” Greg remained in the doorway. It seemed too intimate to be in there.

“Yes, but the mess and dust are yours.” Mycroft motioned again.

Greg tiptoed cautiously, to avoid stepping on a rogue cufflink amid the shambles of what purported to be Mycroft’s room. Once he found a safe place to stand, Greg looked around. It seemed so¬—Mycroft. Elegant. Traditional almost to the point of stuffy. But Greg had learned, if he put the effort into actually seeing Mycroft, he would be rewarded with whimsy that Mycroft tried to hide.

There.

In the corner of the room, a golden teddy bear slumped on a straight back chair. It had one round button where an eye should be; the other was missing. Patches of scrap-bag fabric had been stitched on where the original fur must have worn away from being hugged and held.

For the first time since he walked into the room, Greg felt at ease. He quirked a half-smile and tilted his head toward the corner. “Friend of yours?”

“Mr. Cuddles and I go back a long way,” Mycroft answered, his smile genuine. He should probably be embarrassed, a minor government official displaying a sentimental, childhood memento, but he wasn’t. At all.

“Old friends are best,” Greg nodded, his smile wide enough to show his dimples. “But, new friends can be good, too.” _What the fuck. Why did he keep flirting with his boss? Bad. This was bad. You don’t spit your tobacco juice where you swing your bat._

“Yes, new friends are quite…they’re very…good.” Mycroft smiled at Greg, wanting to reach out and trace the dimples with his finger. His stomach plummeted. Christ. He’d broken his first rule. Almost his only rule. Don’t fall for straight boys.

“So, ah, I would expect the bed to be made, the room dusted and hoovered, and the laundry washed and put away.”

Greg stuttered. “Including your…Even the…” He took a steady breath and said, “Could you please show me where your things go?”

The thought of washing Mycroft’s probably-silk boxers was incredibly intimate. It wasn’t washing them; it’s that it was too easy to imagine Mycroft wearing only the boxers, his runner’s legs, lanky with well-defined muscles.

He’d been so obvious the first time he saw Mycroft in his Lycra running pants. The goddamn pants outlined everything. He looked so fucking hot. Greg was certain his eyes bulged 2 feet out from his head, like they do in cartoons. He’d tried to look above Mycroft’s waist but he couldn’t resist.

_Oh. My. God. Why? Who poured him into spandex and said it would be ok? Greg didn’t need to use any imagination about Mycroft’s¬ package. He knew—he fucking knew—Mycroft would be a jaw stretcher. It was a short leap from there to imagining himself on his knees, Mycroft’s hands holding his head still as he fucked Greg’s mouth, his jaw aching from the stretch, his hands filled with Mycroft’s ass._

“Gregory, are you alright?” Mycroft asked, his voice concerned. “You’re a little—flushed. Are you feeling well?"

“Good. Yeah. I’m. I’m good.” Greg swallowed hard and flexed his hands, trying to return blood flow to the rest of his body.

Mycroft pointed around the room. “Trousers and shirts must be ironed and hung up. That dresser holds my running clothes and socks. Finally, bed linens are kept in my linen closet in here¬” Mycroft stepped into the en suite’s doorway, but Greg stopped him.

“What about your underwear and pajamas? Where do they go?” Greg didn’t think Mycroft would appreciate him rooting around in his dresser.

“Never mind about those.” Mycroft rushed the sentence, trying to leave the bedroom.

“Seriously, if I’m going to put them away, I’ve gotta know where they go. You’re particular, and I don’t want to put them in the wrong place.” Greg reached for a drawer.

“Idontwearany.” Mycroft’s face turned white then blotchy, starting at his cheeks and down his neck until it disappeared underneath his collar. Christ, he’d blushed more since Greg moved in than he had in 23 years.

“Wha? I swear I didn’t hear you right.” Greg stammered, trying not to let his jaw hang.

Mycroft’s shoulders slumped. This was much worse than Mr. Cuddles. “I’ve tried Boxers. Briefs. Boxer-briefs. Cotton. Silk. It doesn’t matter. I hate the way they feel. Now, can you please forget you know this about me?” Mycroft’s voice crossed from mortified to pleading.

Instead of wanting to tease him, Greg simply wanted know more about this man. His eyes honed in where Mycroft’s underwear should have been and his cock, already half hard, twitched to show it had no interest in forgetting.

 _“Fucking traitor,”_ Greg silently yelled at his dick. _“Do not even start with me.”_

Mycroft broke away just wanting to hide. He completely regretted all of this now. Should have made my own bed. Washed my own laundry. Then no one would know about my underwear.

“This is my loo.”

Greg followed him into the white-tiled bathroom. “Wow. You have a tub! Why don’t I don't have a tub?” Greg teased Mycroft, hoping to get him to relax. “Rubber ducky says a shower isn't the same.”

“Please tell rubber ducky that I pay the mortgage, so I get the tub. However, it is welcome to use the tub whenever it can walk itself in here.” Mycroft laughed. He was a grown man talking to a grown man about rubber ducks.

Greg picked up the Bose headphones that hung within arm’s reach of the tub. “These are an incredible quality. What do you listen to?”

Mycroft finally relaxed. They were back on safe footing, discussing music. “After a long day at work and a dreadful commute, I enjoy listening to opera and soaking in a hot bath.”

“It does sound great. Rubber ducky will be jealous.” Greg smiled wide, enjoying the easiness that returned between them. “I’ll just get started, then.”

As Mycroft walked down the stairs, he almost tripped over Sherlock who had seated himself mid stair.

"How was school today, Sherlock?" Even as he asked it, Mycroft knew he wouldn’t get a response. He never did.

Sherlock’s head was buried in his book on the life of bees. “Fine,” he mumbled with no conviction. He waited for Mycroft to get down the stairs at halfway to his home-office. "Are you going to my teacher conference tonight at 5:30?”

Mycroft’s jaw and shoulders tensed; through gritted teeth Mycroft spoke in measured words. "What. Teacher.Conference?"

"They sent home notices," Sherlock answered innocently. "Didn't you get mine?"

"No brother mine, I cannot get what you do not give to me.” Mycroft wondered if murdering his little brother would be covered under diplomatic immunity. If he chopped the body up and told everyone that the little twat went back to England…

Sherlock hmm’d in deep thought. "I was certain I’d given that to you.” Sherlock wouldn’t meet Mycroft’s gaze. He kept his eyes glued to the bee keeping book.

Mycroft turned on his heel to face Sherlock. "You may not be aware but people at the consulate rely on me. I have a teleconference tonight with people from many nations. I can't just cancel it. And you are on thin ice at school, so I must be there. You have put me in a very difficult position Sherlock. "

"I'm sorry,” Sherlock managed not to sound the least bit sorry at all. He flipped his book open to the index in the back, and made a show of following each line with his finger as if to say to Mycroft, you are excused.

Mycroft looked at his watch. He had 45 minutes until he needed to meet the teacher. He might be able to rearrange the teleconference and make it to Sherlock’s school. He sent Greg a brief text as he disappeared into his office.

_**Change of plans. I am meeting Sherlock's teacher for a conference. Do not hold dinner. I will be back later.** _

__

With a cocky smile, Sherlock returned to the kitchen to check on John Daily Homework Fiasco. He tried to wait patiently at the table for John to finish. It’s not that Sherlock thought his friend was dumb. He was just methodical. Slow. Plodding. Almost dumb. Definitely boring. He gave up on the bee book and rummaged in the cabinets for things he could use in some totally awesome science experiments when John was finished.

Sherlock dragged the bowls, the vinegar, the baking soda, the measuring spoons out to the yard, because Greg’s rule was ‘no messes in the house.’ Which was boring, but it was better than Mycroft’s ‘no messes at all’ rule.

As John folded up his last page of homework Mrs. Hudson appeared at the back door with a plate of chocolate chip cookies, still warm from the oven. Each boy grabbed a handful of cookies to fuel their adventures and called a crumby ‘thank you’ to her as they ran off.

Greg came down to the kitchen for cleaning supplies and stopped short when he saw Mrs. Hudson at the table, waiting for the tea water to boil. Greg hugged her and kissed her cheek.

“How’s housekeeping going, dear?” Mrs. Hudson laughed as she looked at the mess Sherlock had made. Most of the cabinets were open with their items spilling out onto the counter and floor. “Are you getting on well?”

Greg made two cups of tea the way Mycroft had shown him his first night there. He packed loose tea into the tea ball, placed it in the mug, and poured boiling water over the bag. As it steeped, Greg brought milk and sugar to the table. "I really like it. They're really good to John, and Mycroft has very few rules."

"I sense a _but_ coming."

"No, no _but_.”

Mrs. Hudson patted Greg’s hand, which sat next to his untouched, over-steeped tea. “That may work on some people but not for an old lady like me." Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Tell me what happened."

Greg opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to say something difficult and not finding the right words. "You know Mycroft better than I do. Is he the kind of person to forgive a mistake?” And it all spilled out of Greg. The first day he should have told Mycroft that he was also gay, but he thought it might have made a difference to Mycroft and he really needed this job and he couldn't afford to lose it and did Mrs. Hudson think that Mycroft would forgive him or fire him?

"Well dear,” Mrs. Hudson answered, laying her warm palm on the back of his hand. "If it's just that you're gay and living with him that's one thing. But I must ask. Do you have a crush on him?"

“Really, Mrs. Hudson? A crush? What am I, 12?" Greg’s heart raced, realizing he’d been too obvious.

"I notice you didn't answer my question." Mrs. Hudson raised one eyebrow.

"Can't I have any secrets?"

"Well, not from an old lady with eyes like a hawk. Besides,” she said, "I've been here when Mycroft has been in his running pants."

Greg buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do Mrs. Hudson? I don't want to leave. And John is so happy here. Sherlock is the best friend he’s ever had.”

Mrs. Hudson rose to go home. “I think you're safe dear. Mycroft is a bit oblivious to many things that are obvious to you and me." She waved goodbye and offered her last piece of advice. “You need to relax before you get around knives for dinner.”

Greg checked his watch. It was just 5pm now. He decided that a long, grueling run would clear his mind.

Before he left the house, he sent two text messages. In the first he told Sherlock that he had 5 minutes to clean up the kitchen mess. Second, he messaged Mycroft that he was going out for a run and likely would be back after Mycroft had left for the conference. Greg headed to his room to change before hitting the pavement.

Just after 5pm and with time to spare before Sherlock's conference,  Mycroft found John in the backyard digging for brontosaurus bones while Sherlock leaned against a tree, directing the activity. He laughed at how Sherlock had tricked John into doing the hard work. "Well Sherlock,” Mycroft said, wrapping his arm around his brother's shoulders. “I've negotiated with the 16 nations to agree to a later start time for our conference call, but I will be able to attend your teacher conference tonight." Mycroft stood tall, his legs spread wide as he congratulated himself on his excellent job as guardian as his brother.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and looked at Mycroft as if he were insane. "Did I tell you that was tonight? I am so sorry. I got the dates wrong. It was last night. "

Mycroft blanched. He knew better than to take Sherlock at his word. He should have asked to see the fucking letter.

"I rearranged 16 very important, very busy people, and you lied to me." Mycroft bit his tongue so hard he drew blood. The one thing saving Sherlock was that they were outside. Mycroft turned away and walked back toward the house.

Mycroft needed to calm down before he hurt some, quite possibly Sherlock. A bubble bath and classical music would do the trick. He would deal with his brother after the teleconference. Mycroft disappeared upstairs to block out the world with a hot bath and gorgeous classical music, played too loud through his headphones.

When Greg returned from his brief run, he felt more at ease. He knew he’d eventually come to terms with his budding feelings for Mycroft and decide whether to divulge his currently-hidden orientation.

He waved out the back door to the boys, who were digging up the yard. Since Mycroft was at Sherlock’s teacher-conference, he could hold off dinner for an extra few minutes. A quick soak in a bubble bath was just what the housekeeper ordered. Greg gathered his ducky, towel, and back brush from his own bathroom and walked through Mycroft's now-clean room to his “loo,” as he’d called it earlier.

Mycroft lay in the dying bubbles and tepid water listening to the last notes of Madama Butterfly’s first act through his headphones. He’d reached his perfect time to leave the tub. His fingertips and toes felt soft but hadn’t yet wrinkled. And Butterfly and Lt. Pinkerton sang their final duet of the act, the lyrics translating as “I have caught you. You are mine.” And Butterfly sings, “Yes, for life.” Mycroft would never admit that he rarely listened to the entire opera; each time he continued to the remaining two acts, his heart splintered for innocent Butterfly who had fallen for her lieutenant’s lies.

Immersed in the music, Mycroft rose from the tub conducting the final notes while he waited for bathwater to drip from him. With the final note, he reached for a towel.

At the same moment that Greg opened the bathroom door.

 

{commercial break}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't hate me for the cliff hanger. :D I promise i will finish before the weekend is out. We had some family issues and rather than miss the deadline completely, I thought I would give you what I have. 
> 
> (It's all good. I promise)


	3. I Should Tell Him (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When we return from commercial break, Mycroft and Greg have to deal with the aftermath of Full. Frontal. Nudity. And a few of Greg's secrets. But mostly he nudity thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TYTYTY for being so understanding about the cliff hanger.

**(Return from commercial break)**

It happened in slow-motion.

Greg’s rubber duck hit the floor with a squeak (which may have actually come from Greg’s open mouth) and bounced halfway to where Mycroft stood, naked and dripping.

Mycroft locked eyes with Greg, holding them six feet up. _Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down_.

This time, there was no doubt that the squeak came from Greg, who’d looked down. “Oh. My. God.”

All hell erupted.

Mycroft shouted, “ **GET OUT** ,” pointing to the door with one hand and trying (but not succeeding) to cup and cover his cock, which had developed a mind of its own and chose this moment to declare its interest.

Greg alternated between covering his eyes and offering Mycroft a towel while babbling a stream of indiscernible apologies. “Ohmygodi’msosorryyou’resupposedtobeatschoolididn’tthinkitwouldbeaproblem—”

Mycroft grabbed the wadded towel from Greg’s hand and threw it at him. “Get. Out. **Now**.”

Greg slammed the door as he left. He felt ill—not from seeing Mycroft naked, because that was a-friggin-mazing. But from betraying Mycroft’s trust, ¬and that was just from using the bathroom without asking. When Mycroft found out he’d hidden that he was gay, well that would be it. Greg would be fired. He leaned his back against the bathroom door and hit his head against the door. When would he learn?

“Get. OUT.”

Greg pulled himself away from the door. He knew Mycroft thought he was knocking, probably to apologize. But he could never apologize, never recover from this clusterfuck.

“Uncle Greg?” John called from in the kitchen. “When’s dinner?”

On the way to the kitchen, Greg dropped his useless bath things on the floor of his room. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he chant-cursed as he took the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t even started cooking.

He’d defrosted Italian sausages, ¬but no way he could pick up something that thick and long and not think about¬--

Hot dogs! They’re fast and easy. He’d just bought that new kind that are extra plump and juicy when you cook them--¬

He was doomed as fuck. His stomach twisted and ached every time his mind replayed what had happened—and it replayed it on an infinite loop. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” he muttered as he dumped frozen chicken breasts in a pan. He shoved a can of tomatoes in the electric can opener, the whir of its motor accompanying his song, which now included “Stupid idiot.”

Mycroft nudged the kitchen's swinging door open, careful to avoid the squeaks. He wanted to immerse himself in work but his briefcase sat miles away on the kitchen table—with Greg in between.

Deep in thought, Greg pushed at the chicken in the pan, picking each piece up and slapping it back down. Drops of red sauce splashed up onto Greg’s shirt which made him curse more.

Mycroft tiptoed into the kitchen, retrieved the bag, and made it back to the door unnoticed. Then he turned to look at Greg, whose rounded shoulders and low hung head told Mycroft what he was thinking. Ready to push the door open, Mycroft stopped. He decided against it.

Greg put the lid on the frying pan and said "I know you're there, you know."

Mycroft sounded defeated, almost plaintive. "Why did you have to use my loo? We were getting on so well."

Greg couldn’t answer. His heart had jammed itself up into his throat, thrashing to be released. He placed the lid on the pan and faced Mycroft. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I just wanted to soak my back.”

The briefcase’s strap bit into Mycroft’s shoulder, the heft of it reminding him of how much work he had to do before the start of the day in Chechnya. He didn’t have the extra time for this. But right now, this, here in his home, felt more important. The revolution could wait another 15 minutes.

“What is the problem with your back?” Mycroft dragged the strap off his shoulder. He placed the bag on the floor with a solid thud.

Greg tried to read Mycroft’s face, looking for something, anything that would tell him what Mycroft was thinking. Nothing. Not a quirk. Not a wrinkle. Greg reached for the apron that hung on the wall, fumbling with the ties. At least he could focus on the distraction rather than Mycroft.

“The truth is—” Greg pushed his heart out of his throat. If telling the truth meant he’d lose the job, then he wouldn’t skulk out the door in shame. “When I was younger, I did some things I’m not proud of—”

“Wrong friends?” Mycroft lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs. He wanted to listen with an open mind, yet experience taught him that nothing good came of sentences that began _The truth is_ … He tapped the table for Greg to come sit.

“Very wrong. I was young, bored. It was off season and I was home for a few months. High school friends came by wanting help stealing from apartments. The haul was good and we never got caught.”

Greg held up his hand to stop Mycroft from interrupting. “I didn’t get any of it, and I wouldn’t have taken it if they’d offered it. But I fell climbing down from the fire escape and landed on my back.”

Mycroft winced in sympathy pain. He wanted to reach across the table and cover Greg’s hand with his, something reassuring and supportive.

“I couldn’t call 911 because of the robberies. The police would have put it together fast. I had to drag myself up and push through the pain. I screwed up my back and there went my baseball career.”

Again, he stopped Mycroft. “It’s done and gone. John is what’s important now and being a good role model. But it’s been twinging and I thought a soak might help.”

Greg stood up and untied the apron, dropping it onto the table. “Let the chicken simmer for 40 minutes and then serve it over spaghetti.” He extended his hand, offering it to Mycroft as a final apology. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

Mycroft had no idea what was happening. And he hated it. “Wait. What?”

“I’m going to pack.” There. He’d told the truth; he could leave with his head up.

“Pack what? Why?” Mycroft pushed his hand through his hair. He was ridiculously confused.

“I’m assuming you want us to leave.” With Mycroft’s confusion, Greg felt a tiny shoot of hope pushing up through his dismay.

“Why would I want that?” This time, Mycroft did reach out, holding Greg’s arm, not letting him leave the room. “My house is cleaner than it’s ever been. I’ve never seen Sherlock as happy as he is. And I quite like—” God, what did he almost say? The joy he felt almost spilled into his sentence. “—This recipe. And I have no idea how to make it.”

Greg laughed at the ridiculous reason. “Put the chicken in the pan. Pour a can of tomatoes over it.”

Mycroft thought Greg was beautiful when he laughed. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his dimples punctuated his smile. He knew, if he rested his head on Greg’s chest when he laughed, it would sound like his heart purring. “Well, you know, spices, seasoning, the proper temperature, of course.” He ticked off reasons on his fingertips. “And time. How will I know when it’s done?”

“I’d really like to stay. We’d really like it. Because, y’know, John. He really likes it here. The trees. The school. He even gets to use the word jitney.” Greg’s broad smile spread across his face but faded a moment later as he sat back down at the table. “There’s one other thing you have to know.”

Mycroft threw up his hands in surrender, but his voice was warm and teasing. “How many more secrets can you have?”

_Rip the band-aid off, Greg,_ he told himself. _Just say it_. “I’m, ah—I mean, I’m gay. I don’t normally tell my employers, because it’s not their business, but you were worried that hiring a guy would look ‘untoward’, and that’s when you thought I was straight. Not that anyone’s going to know unless you tell them, because I’m not going to tell them, but—”

Mycroft cut him off. Gay? He felt the spark of heat flare. Rule #1: Don’t fall for straight boys. He almost giggled with happiness. He wasn’t straight. “No one needs to know anything, except probably Mrs. Hudson because she’s likely already discerned it.”

“She figured it out already.” Greg replied at the same time as Mycroft.

Mycroft rose from the table, wanting to throw his arms around Greg, to welcome him back and not let him leave. But he settled for a firm handshake. “Don’t use my tub without asking, okay?”

Greg nodded solemnly. “I should probably start the spaghetti,” he said, standing up.

The boys burst through the door, dirt-stained clothes and hands.

“Man that was one huge bone!” John laughed as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. “The biggest bone I ever saw!”

Greg tightened his lips and tried, tried, tried not to remember Mycroft standing in the tub.

“Be hard for him to get his mouth around it!” Sherlock agreed, lifting the lid on the bubbling chicken and tomatoes.

Mycroft’s eyes were open wide, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes. What are you talking about?”

John and Sherlock’s words tumbled over each other.

“We found a huge stick and pretended it was a dinosaur bone.”

“I told John that it would have been too big for Redbeard if he were here.”

“Mycroft, you okay?” John asked, staring. Because Mycroft had collapsed into the chair and his head was buried in his folded arms.

Mycroft nodded, still hiding his face. They heard his giggle, a high-pitched titter under the table.

Greg spluttered, and then laughed, leaning against the stove to support himself. When Mycroft looked up and caught Greg’s eyes, they laughed harder. “Big. Bone.”

Sherlock and John knew the two men were stupid and left to go watch cartoons.

Greg wiped the tears from his face. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so free. And yeah. You shouldn’t spit your tobacco where you swing your bat. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t.


	4. Saturday (Day's) Alright For Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's room is empty and they don't know where he's gone. And Mycroft + Fisticuffs = BAMF!Croft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge thanks to [221Btls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls) and [GABM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geronimoandbemagnificient) who are two awesome betas. and a very special thanks because 221Btls is on vacay in the mother country and STILL took time to read. 
> 
> The title of the chapter is from the song Saturday Night's Alright by Elton John. But not the EJ version. The Fall Out Boy version, because I'm FOB AF.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Greg flipped the pancakes on the griddle and listened for the screeches and crashes from the cartoons. Bickering over the remote. Giggling “so’s yer mum.”

Saturdays aren’t supposed to be quiet with two boys living in the house.

Greg slid the pancakes onto a platter and placed it on the table before going in search of trouble. In his short time as a surrogate parent, Greg had learned that when the boys were quiet, they were usually doing something they shouldn’t.

Sherlock sat curled in the corner of the couch, his beekeeping book open on his chest and his fingers steepled at his chin. This was his favorite thinking pose.

“He’s such an odd little duck,” Greg thought, watching Sherlock lying motionless. “But he’s my little duck.” His heart leapt and he couldn’t help himself. He reached out and ruffled the dark curls. “Hey, sport. Do me a favor and go wake up John, please. Breakfast’s on the table. Your favorite today!”

Sherlock eased his book closed and placed it with reverence on the coffee table before he bolted up the stairs for John’s room.

Greg smiled as he watched Sherlock race away. He called out the open door, “I didn’t know pancakes were such a motivator. I’ll make them more often!”

Back in the kitchen, Greg poured more batter onto the griddle and checked the bacon in the oven. In a few minutes, it would be exactly the way Mycroft liked it. Greg was a good cook, but with the help of The Food Network and YouTube videos, he was getting even better. Which made Mycroft smile. Which made Greg happy.

When Sherlock eased open the swinging door, Greg turned to greet the boys. Instead, Sherlock was alone, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. “He’s not there, Uncle Greg. I don’t think he slept there.”

Greg flipped the pancakes, willing himself not to jump to conclusions. “He probably got up early to go play.”

“He’s gone.” Sherlock said it as fact. He didn’t know what to do, so he ran to Greg and hugged him as tightly as he could. It surprised Greg, who often forgot Sherlock was still just a little boy.

“Who’s gone? Oh, pancakes!” Still in his robe, Mycroft followed Sherlock into the kitchen. He grabbed three pancakes from the griddle, sliding them onto his plate.

“John’s run away,” Sherlock said, his face pressed into Greg’s belly.

“I’m sure he’s just out playing.” Greg peeled Sherlock off of him and opened the back door. He kept his voice steady as he hollered out for John to come home. Now. Mycroft cringed; he was sure to get a message from the homeowner’s association with regard to “undue noise at an unfit hour.”

No John.

Sherlock tugged at Mycroft’s robe. “I’m certain that John has run away.” Sherlock’s chin trembled as he tried to convince his brother.

“Why do you think that?” Greg pulled at his short hair. He should call John’s friends, but who are they? He never talks about anyone but Sherlock.

“I don’t _think_. I know. I observed.” Sherlock stood as tall as he could, his hands shoved into his jeans’ pockets so Greg wouldn’t see them shake. “Come upstairs and I’ll show you.”

Sherlock ran up the stairs with the two men on his heels. Greg couldn’t catch a full breath—he felt like he wouldn’t breathe right until John was back here. Where he belonged.

Mycroft pressed his hand to Greg’s back. “We’ll find him. I’m sure of it,” he whispered and Greg nodded, wanting to convince himself.

Sherlock stood in the center of the room. He allowed Greg and Mycroft to take two steps into the room but no more. “One of you will touch something and mess everything up.”

Neither Greg nor Mycroft understood how they could screw anything up; John’s room had either been ransacked by thorough burglars or had stood its ground in a tornado.

“Do you ever clean this room?” Mycroft didn’t know where to look. Someone had opened the bureau drawers and flung the contents out, ripped through the closet, even dumped something leaving a small mountain of papers, pencils, wrappers. The only unscathed place was the bed, with the covers taut and the pillow still fluffed.

“I do. Every day,” Greg sputtered at the smear against his housekeeping skill. “Maybe your brother is a bad influence—”

“Will you two shut up? We don’t have time for your bickering. John might be in trouble.” They heard fear in Sherlock’s voice, even though he tried to hide the quiver.

Sherlock pointed to the pile of garbage next to John’s bed. “He dumped his school bag out. He needed something to carry his stuff in. His copy of The Hobbit that he reads before bed is missing. And…” He rooted through the mess from John’s drawers, looking for something specific.

“I thought so.” Sherlock turned to the two men, almost pleading with them to believe him. “Uncle Greg, the box John keeps your baseball card in is missing. He told me it was one of the two most important things he owned.”

Mycroft interrupted Sherlock before he could say more. “That is hardly evidence of… what is that smell?”

Greg’s heart pounded as he gulped breaths. “Is it blood?”

“It smells like burning—”

“Bacon!” Greg’s stream of curses followed them to the smoky kitchen. Coughing, he opened the oven door and was hit with a great puff of smoke. He withdrew the baking sheet with charred lumps on the aluminum foil.

The pan landed with a clatter in the sink. Greg opened the back door for fresh air and Mycroft swung the kitchen door as a fan.

Sherlock ran in and grabbed Mycroft by the elbow. “He’s gone to New York. We have to find him.”

“How do you know?” Greg asked, slamming the door closed.

“He left the bus schedule open on your laptop, Uncle Greg.” Sherlock said through shaky laughter. He hugged Mycroft, who could feel his brother’s trembling arms.

Once Greg knew where, he understood why. John had talked more often about his old friends, his old apartment, and mostly, his mom. “He went home,” Greg said simply.

“As soon as Sherlock and I are dressed, we’ll go into the city. Shall we take my BMW or should I call my service to drive us in?” Mycroft had his phone out, ready to make the call.

“I hate to say this, but if we leave the BMW outside the apartment building, it won’t be there when we get back.” Greg’s cheeks burned at the admission. Mycroft and his world were so far from nasty neighborhoods with stolen cars and barroom fights.

“Understood.” As he left, Mycroft was already texting the driver instructions.

Sherlock returned to the kitchen in his weekend clothes and an oversized magnifying glass. “This is for tiny clues!” he told Greg, who hoped there wouldn’t be any tiny clues.

“Hey, sport,” Greg said, looking at Sherlock’s pressed twill pants and sky blue Polo shirt. “Do you have some, you know, jeans and a t-shirt maybe? Some dress down clothes?”

Sherlock looked at Greg blankly. “These are my dress down clothes.”

“Ah.” Greg scraped the bacon down the garbage disposal and tossed the cold, rubbery pancakes out the back door for the birds. Something struck him and he turned to Sherlock. “My computer has a security code!”

Sherlock laughed at poor, deluded Greg. “Your birthday isn’t much of a security code.”

Greg turned away from Sherlock. He pressed his lips between his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed trying not to laugh. Once he was under control, he called Molly Hooper, who promised to let him know as soon as she her hands on John and not to let him leave.

~*~

  
**I’ve got him. He’s safe.**

 

Greg showed Mycroft the text and finally drew a giant breath, feeling like the iron bands had fallen from around his chest. Molly had John, and he was fine.

“I’m gonna hug him first,” Greg said, a bubble of laughter bursting from him. “Then I’m gonna kill him.”

~*~

 

Greg led Mycroft and Sherlock up the five flights of stairs to Molly’s apartment in his old building. When he looked back, the two of them had stopped, red-faced and huffing. “Don’t you have physical education every day at school?”

Sherlock shook his head no, incapable of managing more than forcing out one word at a time. “Traded. It. For. A. Coding. Class.”

Greg shook his head in disgust. “And you,” he pointed to Mycroft, who was doubled over. “Don’t you have to go through some super-secret boot camp for spy school?”

“I keep telling you….I’m a minor official…in the British Consulate…” Mycroft stood up, his face red from embarrassment as much as being out of shape.

“Sure. With a driver and limo. Uh huh.” He smiled at Mycroft, even as he mumbled something about them being lightweights. “You need a good, hard work out. You and me. When we get home.” He’d get Mycroft into shape—oh God, he did it again.

“I mean, exercise. Get your heart pumping—just never mind.” It all sounded bad.

Mycroft giggled from relief, and Greg joined in. John was safe. And he hadn’t meant to sound so suggestive, but based on the tent in Mycroft’s trousers…

Greg knocked on the apartment door, two quick raps the way he always did to let her know it was him. When Molly opened the door, she hugged Greg.

“Go easy on him, Greg,” she whispered to him. “He knows he was wrong.”

When he saw John sitting on the couch, Greg’s knees buckled, but Mycroft grabbed him and held him up. Once Greg could move, he scooped up John—who was too big to be held—and buried his face in the curve of John’s neck.

Greg’s voice cracked as he whispered, “I thought we lost you. Thank God you’re okay.” He rocked as he clasped John, who cried in relief. Or because Greg held him too tightly, and he couldn’t breathe.

When he was capable of speaking again, Greg pulled back to look at John. “If you ever do this again…” He couldn’t bring himself to complete his threat.

“I won’t. I promise. Can you put me down now?” John said as he wiped his eyes. Greg ignored him and kept him curled on his lap.

Mycroft reached over Greg’s shoulder to brush John’s hair. “What made you leave, John?”

John looked down at the threadbare carpet. He couldn’t even meet Mycroft’s eyes. He felt like a real jerk after all the nice stuff Mycroft’d done for him, like school and uniforms.

Mycroft lowered his body, crouching so he could look at John. “Did we do something wrong? Are you unhappy?”

John shook his head.

“Then why, honey?” Greg sounded tired, the adrenaline draining away.

“I think he missed his real home.” Sherlock spoke with such authority that Molly looked around for another adult. “It’s obvious, really. If he missed the city, he would have gone to Times Square or Central Park. But he came here. You have the menu for a local pizzeria next to your phone on the counter. So you were going to call once they opened.” Sherlock gave a shrug of his shoulders and a raised eyebrow, meaning so there.

“And yesterday I told Sherlock how much I missed it here.” John pulled a face at Sherlock instead of saying _“You’re not so smart now, are you.”_

Greg put John down on his feet. “We’re going to talk about this when we get home, young man.” He meant to sound like a strict disciplinarian, but he was so overjoyed that John was safe, he couldn’t quite muster real anger. “And maybe we can schedule a day once a month when we can come and hang out.”

John nodded, relieved that the worst seemed over. “About that pizza…”

“Let’s go to that place around the corner,” Molly said after Greg formally introduced her to Mycroft and Sherlock. “John wanted to show Sherlock my guinea pigs. You guys go and save us a table.”

Sherlock chased John further into Molly’s apartment, and Greg showed Mycroft out, his hand lingering on the small of Mycroft’s back as he ushered him through the door.

~*~

In the six weeks he’d lived in Connecticut, Greg missed nothing as much as he missed a slice of pizza. Real pizza. New York pizza. Not ‘New York Style’. The real thing from Ciccone’s. A dump with plastic patio tables and plastic patio chairs. Shakers of parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes alongside metal napkin dispensers. It had all the ambiance of a boardwalk arcade, complete with a row of pinball machines against the far wall. When Greg pushed open the door, the smells and sounds triggered every memory he had of this place.

“Lestrade! What t’fuck you doin here?” the man behind the counter hollered across the empty restaurant. Mycroft was taken aback by his rough language and the implied threat in his stance.

“I can fuckin’ be here if I want.” Greg walked up to the man, shook his hand and pulled him into a bro-hug, including back-slapping.

Mycroft wouldn’t call the man handsome, because he was a freaking Adonis. Short dark hair, perfect teeth, looked incredible in his jeans that made his legs seem miles long. And the bulging biceps in the painted-on t-shirt. He was a goddamn Paris Fashion Week model.

He looked down at his own stodgy, dull-gray three-piece suit. He’d worn his power red tie and matching pocket hankie, as if that made him stylish. Mycroft felt like an out of place fool standing here.

No doubt Greg and this Caveman, who probably only had a public high school diploma, had been lovers. Weekends spend tangled in sweaty sheets, Greg working the New York Times crossword puzzle and Caveman learning to count on his fingers.

"How's school, Ciccone?" Greg asked, his smile wide.

Ah-ha. Ciccone. Caveman got this job because he’s family. And still in school. He probably failed high school so many times he hadn't yet graduated. Mycroft took a perverse pleasure in that, even if his heart felt like lead.

“Good. The kids are great. They have almost nothing, so we teachers bring in food and supplies for them.”

Great. Just great. He's Albert Schweitzer.

Greg remembered Mycroft. “Dom Ciccone, this is my friend Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft compared this smile to the one Greg gave Caveman. It seemed to be equally as large. He breathed a smidgeon easier.

Mycroft put his hand forward and shook Dom's. Maybe he squeezed a little tighter than was strictly necessary. "How do you do?" He looked into Dom’s eyes. An accomplished negotiator, Mycroft knew hate when he saw it in someone’s eyes.

"How do you do?" Dom laughed as he said it, thinking he cleverly mimicked Mycroft's accent.

Greg wasn’t sure why, but this wasn’t going well. He had no idea why Dom was being such a dick. Greg changed the subject to diffuse the tension. "Dom here teaches at PS 157 in the South Bronx. It's one of the poorest schools in the city."

“I just want to make a difference, and helping kids is the most fulfilling way to do that.” Caveman made goo-goo eyes at Greg, batting his lashes. For God’s sake, was he sending Morse code? “And what do you do, Mike?”

Greg interrupted. “Mycroft,” he corrected Dom carefully, making Mycroft’s name sound like sunshine and sweetness in his mouth, “works for the British Consulate.”

Judging from the sneer playing on his lips, Caveman wasn't impressed. “Awesome. A low-level bureaucrat. I’m sure the city needed one more.” His tone said sounded friendly and teasing but his words were honed like knives.

“He's not. He's—”

Mycroft placed hand on Greg’s arm, to stop him from saying any more. “Let's find a place to sit and order." He made a show of looking around the empty restaurant and nudged Greg toward a table. “Two Cokes."

Caveman grunted.

“Thank you for coming with me to find John,” Greg said once they were seated. He smiled and bumped his knee into Mycroft’s. “It means a lot.” He smiled at Mycroft the way he did at home, when one of them told a good joke or complimented the other. The smile that made Mycroft’s heart stutter. “The pizza here is great. Dom's father owned this place forever.”

Dom brought the drinks to the table. “Remember all the nights you and I would hang out here till Pop closed up. Then we’d go to the movies and sit in the back row. Sometimes we’d even pay attention to the movie.” He handed Greg a Coke.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Mycroft purred. “Were they too difficult for you to understand?”

Dom smiled. Then he poured Mycroft’s drink into his lap. Thirty-two ounces of ice cold soda. “Goodness Golly Gee. I’m so sorry. Here. Let me help,” Dom mocked, as he stood back and watched.

No one paid any attention to the bell that jangled as the door opened.

Mycroft pushed his wobbly plastic chair back from the table and stood up. The front of his trousers were soaked through, but he was calm. Poised.

He picked up Greg’s still-full glass of soda and poured it over Caveman’s head. It slid over his greased hair, dribbled down his face and the back of his neck, and stained his white t-shirt.

“Oh. No. You. Didn’t.” Dom wiped his face with his hand and shook it dry.

“Yes. I believe _even you_ can recognize that I did indeed.”

Dom charged Mycroft, hoping to knock him off balance. Mycroft stepped to the side just before Dom’s shoulder would have slammed into him, which sent Dom off balance instead.

Molly stood in the doorway with the two kids. She gasped and covered the boys’ eyes with her hands. Greg tried to keep the men apart. “What is with you two? Cut it out.”

“Your idiot boyfriend started it,” Dom snarled, wrenching his arm out of Greg’s grasp.

“No, he didn’t,” Greg grabbed for him but missed. “You’ve been fucking with him since we came in.”

Dom lunged at Mycroft, tackling him to the floor. Before Dom could throw a punch, Mycroft had flipped their positions and now Dom lay flat on the floor with Mycroft’s forearm rammed against his windpipe.

Mycroft brought his face down close to Caveman’s, his voice low and threatening. “Don’t let my suit and manners confuse you. It’s not always a sign of reticence. While I am licensed to kill, official inquiries are such tedious affairs. Of course in the end I’d be covered by diplomatic immunity, but why waste my time on…you.”

He turned to Greg and winked. “Super-secret boot camp.”

Mycroft moved his arm and Caveman gasped for air. “I'll send you the cleaning bill for my suit. Please do be prompt in paying it. I'd hate to have to return here.” Mycroft stood and dusted off his bespoke suit, a grey that complemented his eyes, Greg thought. And made his legs look like they were 8 feet long.

“Gregory, shall we leave?” Mycroft asked as he turned toward Greg and the kids.

Greg nodded, but before he left, he squatted next to his old friend who was too embarrassed to move. “The reason we sat in the back row at the theater was because I read books on my phone, not because of anything you wanted to happen. Because I was never gonna get with you. Ever. By the way, he makes a difference every day. You make pizza.”

Greg turned his back on Ciccone and walked to his friends. He smiled wide, realizing that for himself, they were what he wanted now. Not Brooklyn with its noise and dirt and mistakes. “What'd ya say we make our own pizzas? Let's go home.”

“Yes,” Mycroft echoed. He felt breathless and light. And perfect. “Let's go home.”


	5. We'll Be In Between the Sheets til the Late A.M.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is going to be interviewed for a local 'What Happened To...' show. What kind of drama can Irene Adler cause when she comes to visit? #Musical Beds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is beyond ridiculous. I hope you enjoy it :D
> 
> Huge thanks to [GABM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Geronimoandbemagnificent) for reading and laughing with me.
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from my *favorite* Ed Sheeran song, "Don't".

“Guess what?!” Greg rushed through the kitchen door, his hands weighed down with plastic grocery bags. “Guys?”

Instead of the kitchen filled with the noise of two young boys finishing their homework at the table, the room was empty.

No kids.

No books.

Greg dumped the bags on the table. “John, Sherlock. Where are you guys?”

He pushed through the swinging door into the living room. “Hey, you’re home early!”

“I worked quite a bit this past weekend, and I decided I earned an afternoon off.” Mycroft sat in his leather wingback chair, his face buried in the newspaper.

“That doesn’t sound like you. At all. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.” Mycroft gripped the newspaper tighter.

Greg hooked a finger over the top of the paper, easing it down so he could see Mycroft’s face. Rectangular, tortoise-shell eyeglasses framed his face.

“You’re hiding glasses?” Greg touched the bridge and gently slid them back up Mycroft’s nose. “You look good—they. They look good, I mean.” He wished he could just talk right around Mycroft.

Mycroft’s cheeks pinked as he folded the newspaper. “Upstairs.” His voiced sounded gravelly and low to Greg.

Greg stepped back. “What?” If the kids weren’t home, was Mycroft taking Greg up to his room? This was sudden, although he’d had this fluttery feeling in his stomach since—honestly, since he’d seen Mycroft naked. He made his decision. With a deep breath, he said. “Okay.” He turned toward the stairs, his flutters now a flock.

Mycroft coughed, clearing his throat. “The kids are upstairs. Call them down.” Mycroft hid himself behind the paper again.

_“Fuckfuckfuck,”_ Greg thought as his heart plummeted. _“The **kids** are upstairs. Stupid.”_ If he were honest, he knew Mycroft couldn’t be interested in him. He was too rich, too cultured for a washed-up baseball player from Brooklyn.

Masking his disappointment with a fake smile, Greg called the boys down. “I’m gonna be on TV; actually, we’re gonna be on TV.”

The questions overlapped faster than Greg could answer. _Why? Who? When? They’re gonna talk to us?_ Silent, Mycroft watched the excitement from his chair.

“Irene Adler from that show _What Happened To_ … is going to interview me this afternoon for the show. She wants to talk to you guys, too.”

“I’m the one who brought you together,” a voice popped up from the couch.

“Jesus Christ, Mrs. Hudson.” Greg’s hand flew to his chest. “You scared the crap out of me! How did you even get in here?”

“You left the door open when you struggled in with all those bags.” She smiled, her face innocent and sweet.

“You watched me carry all that and didn’t offer to help? You rotten old…” Greg bit his lips to keep from laughing.

“Well,” Mrs. Hudson repositioned herself on the couch, straightening her dress, and looking prim. “The view was quite lovely from behind.” She batted her lashes, pretending to flirt with Greg.

“Mrs. Hudson, if I were 40 years older…” Greg waggled his eyebrows at her, encouraged by her giggles.

“Oh goodness, Greg. I do like my men young.”

“Hellloooooo. Anyone home?” An unfamiliar voice called from the kitchen, interrupting their flirtation. “The door was open so we came in.”

Mycroft crumpled his newspaper as he stood up. “For God’s sake, did no one actually close the kitchen door?” He grumbled _“…security…open door policy…”_ as he investigated the intruders in the kitchen.

“Hel-lo to you, handsome.” The reporter (she had to be, judging by the woman behind her, holding a camera) looked Mycroft up and down, pleased with what she saw. “You’re a tall drink of water. I’ll bet you’d make me wet, too.” Her tongue lapped at her perfectly-colored red lips.

Mycroft stuttered. In his world, women didn’t approach men so brazenly, and they certainly didn’t approach him. Especially not captivating, drop-dead gorgeous women. They usually sized him up as a wonk and moved on as fast as they could.

Losing interest, Irene dragged the camerawoman by the arm in search of Greg. “Here you are! And who are these…adorable…moppets?” The word stuck in her throat; Sally snorted behind her camera. She’d be happy to accuse Irene of many things, but ‘child-friendly’ would never be one of them.

Greg beamed at the two boys, drawing John into a hug. “This is my nephew.”

He introduced John, who mumbled a greeting. When he turned to introduce Sherlock, Greg didn’t like the look on Sherlock’s face. At all. That face meant _I’ve deduced at least a dozen things about this woman and I shouldn’t repeat even one out loud._ That face preceded a verbal crucifixion.

Greg pulled Sherlock into a side hug, wrapping his hand over Sherlock’s mouth. “Sherlock, this is Ms. Irene Adler. The reporter from _What Happened To_ … that I was telling you about before.” He whispered in Sherlock’s ear, “Behave or it’s broccoli every night this week.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide; Greg’s threat was more potent than Mycroft’s glare from across the room. “Good afternoon, madam. I’m Sherlock Holmes. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Ohhhh, another Brit.”

Mycroft hated that abbreviation. The British Isles were an honored union with a distinguished history. To be reduced to a single syllable sullied its glory. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten as he clenched his teeth to bite back the reprimand.

“Sherlock is my brother. Our parents are currently on a scientific expedition in the Amazon and have appointed me legal guardian.”

Irene moved to Mycroft, her heels tip-tapping on the wooden floorboards. “You, sir, are filled with secrets. I like that.” She dragged her scarlet fingernail up the placket of his shirt, flicking each button. “I’ll figure you out.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Mrs. Hudson placed herself between Mycroft and Irene Adler. “Although I believe you’re here to talk to Greg.” Her words sounded pleasant and her smile was wide and sweet, but below the surface they were lethal.

“And you are—” Irene’s voice dripped with disinterest, searching her purse for something instead of looking at Mrs. Hudson.

“Someone with the boys’ best interests at heart.” She offered her hand to Irene who ignored it. “Mrs. Hudson. Neighbor.”

Irene rolled her eyes and turned away without shaking hands. “Sally, I’m going to ask Mr. Yummy here some questions. Please make sure you adjust the focus this time and get my good side.”

Mrs. Hudson whispered in Mycroft’s ear; Irene heard his quiet snicker and cut him down with her stare.

“Greg Lestrade, formerly of the New York Mets.” Irene spoke to the camera instead of looking at Greg. “You’re looking very well.”

“Thanks.” Greg beamed at the camera. “I still play, but it’s with my nephew and his friends. And I coach their team.” He pulled John closer to him, so the camera framed them both.

“What brought you to Connecticut?” Irene smiled directly at the lens.

“Work, a better life for my nephew.” He watched Mycroft, who stood behind Sally the Camerawoman. Mycroft made odd faces, his eyes blinking rapidly. Greg had no idea what was the matter with Mycroft, but he looked really goofy doing that.

“Would work and the better life include this lovely all-male family you’re part of now?”

The trap snapped shut. He’d walked right into Irene’s gossip. That was what Mycroft tried to warn him about. Greg’s stomach fell. “Yes, it is.” He stood tall, looking into the camera. “Some men might be ashamed to admit this, but I was lucky to get a great job as a housekeeper for a good family. I’m good at it, and it’s a great place for John to grow up.”

“Do you wear a maid’s uniform complete with stockings and heels?” Irene leered at the lens.

“Aw, c’mon. I keep house—I don’t play it.” Greg objected to her insinuation. “I, y’know, go food shopping. Do the laundry. Give the cars a tune-up.”

“And what else do you tune up?” Irene raised an eyebrow in another aside to the viewers.

Mycroft asked Sally to stop recording. “Ms. Adler, perhaps we could arrange a mutually agreeable time tomorrow for you to complete the interview. Mr. Lestrade has to take his nephew to practice.”

“You’re not as much fun as you could be, Red.” Irene smirked and shook her head. “Shame. ‘Cause I could climb you like a tree.” She left through the front door, telling Sally to make arrangements for the next day.

Sally didn’t apologize; she shrugged her shoulders as if to say _“Yeah. I know.”_ She told Greg to expect them early so they could catch his morning routine. Mycroft closed the door as Sally left, glad to have them out of his home.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head in disgust, and Mycroft caught her eye. Too kind and too honest, Greg was in over his head. Irene would tear him to shreds before he even knew what happened. Without speaking a word, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson agreed to protect Greg.

Later that night, John and Sherlock cajoled, manipulated, and convinced the three adults to allow them to stay up _just a few minutes past bedtime_ to watch _**“Chiller Thriller Theater.”**_

“It’s a triple feature tonight,” John said, reading from the TV Guide. _“It Came from the Hudson River._ Then, _It Came from the Sewers on Broadway_. Then, _It Came from the Sewers to Star on Broadway.”_

Sherlock’s whispered with reverence. “It’s the poignant story of a creature that just wants to sing and dance. It can’t help it if it sucks its talent from people. Literally.” His eyes were wide.

“Well—” Greg said, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

“Well—” Mycroft said, giving in because Greg seemed to.

“Count me in,” Mrs. Hudson chirped as she clapped her hands in excitement. “My husband said I had great legs, like a Rockette.” She raised her skirt above her knee to show them.

A chorus of _um, errrr, yeahs_ greeted her, and she smacked the closest male.

Sherlock looked confused. “I don’t know what a Rockette is, but if he meant you have legs like a rocket, I see what he means.”

Mycroft covered his face and shook his head.

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at Sherlock. “You’re a piece of work,” she said before she made a giant bowl of popcorn.

“The first 30 minutes. That’s all,” Mycroft warned the boys, who cheered at the school-night treat.

By the time the first movie was over, John sat pressed to Greg’s side unwilling to budge an inch. Mrs. Hudson moved to in between the two men, ‘it’s easier to reach the popcorn’ she’d said. Sherlock sat in Mycroft’s chair; he’d pointed out the major plot flaws until he fell asleep.

“No! Don’t sing that song!” John yelled at the television. He’d pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his eyes with his hands.

As the beautiful starlet sang her love song to her mystery lover, the Monster from the Broadway sewers glided up behind her, its slimy trail glistening in the spotlight and bit her head off. Mrs. Hudson’s shriek pierced the silence, so startling sleeping Sherlock that he fell out of Mycroft’s chair.

“This is stupid. He’s not even tall enough to bite her head off,” Sherlock said, yawning. “I’m going to bed.”

Greg looked at the clock on the side table. “John, it’s 11. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

Mycroft’s family rarely watched television and never snuggled together on the couch scared out of their minds. “This movie only has a bit left. Maybe if John promises not to fuss in the morning…”

John nodded, willing to agree to anything to see the end of the movie.

“Not one cranky moment tomorrow, mister.” Greg ruffled John’s hair and hit play on the cable recorder.

By the climax of the third movie, the Sewer Monster had eaten its way through the cast of the Broadway musical, its voice growing stronger and more beautiful with each body it drained of blood. Every crunch of bone and spurt of blood caused the four to pull closer together, their screams scaring them as much as the movie did.

“Thanks for watching tonight’s **_Chiller Thriller_** triple feature. Join us next week at the same time, and remember. Be careful when you sing in the shower. Or the car. Or your dark, shadowy bedroom.” The announcer’s evil laugh ended the broadcast for that night.

Not one person on the couch moved, afraid that the Sewer Monster was near.

“That, uh, that was scarier than I thought it would be.” Greg tried to disengage himself from John and Mrs. Hudson’s death grips, but neither would let him. “You going to be okay, John?”

Greg felt John’s head nod against his shoulder. He did notice that John didn’t release Greg’s hand.

“I was thinking,” Mrs. Hudson said, trying to sound brave and grown up. “Maybe I should spend the night here. Just, you know, in case one of the boys needs someone during the night.”

“Too afraid to go home?” Mycroft teased, prying each of her fingers from between his.

“Way, way too afraid,” she laughed, her voice thin. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Then I’ll be here in the morning when Irene comes back.”

“You don’t have to do that. My room has a double bed.” Greg worked the logistics in his head.

“You dirty boy,” Mrs. Hudson, who sounded like Irene, rubbed her hand on Greg’s shoulder, mocking Irene’s unwelcome familiarity.

“Not like that,” Greg swatted away her hand. “I’ll take Sherlock in with me, and you can have his bed.” When Mycroft protested, Greg stopped him. “You have that big conference call in the morning. You don’t need to deal with Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s grateful smile warmed him. For a brief moment, Greg thought about earlier when he misunderstood what Mycroft had said. His stomach tumbled with disappointment. It would have been really good.

They walked up the stairs in a tight line, not straying too far from the person in front in case the Sewer Monster came. Wobbly _g-g-good nights_ followed each into their rooms.

Mycroft’s words stopped Greg as he opened Sherlock’s bedroom door. “That was fun.”

“Being scared to death?” Greg’s half smile made Mycroft smile wider.

“Being with you all. Together. It’s nice to have—family time. We should do it again. Good night.” Mycroft waved awkwardly, half wave/half salute, thinking _what the fuck was that._ He sighed at his own gawkiness as he removed his shirt and trousers. As a precaution in case someone needed him tonight, Mycroft dug out an old pair of sweat pants, tying them up before he climbed into bed.

Greg scooped up Sherlock and lowered him into his own bed, tucking the covers around him. He changed into his flannel pajama bottoms and crawled into the bed, unable to find a comfortable position. Finally, Greg lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He tried not to think about Mycroft taking time to be with them when Greg was certain he’d had meetings and calls. How he flipped the man in the pizza parlor without effort, his forearm pushed against Dom’s throat.

Greg’s breath hitched at that, and his hand dragged over his bare chest, avoiding his already-hard nipples. Thinking about Mycroft’s hands, soft but with so much power, touching him. Scraping his nipples. _“Aaargh! What are you doing! Sherlock’s here.”_ Greg berated himself. Before his hand dipped under his waist band, Greg flipped over onto his stomach and shoved his hands under his pillow.

Off limits. Mycroft Holmes is off limits. Besides he’s not interested, Greg told himself again and again until he fell asleep.

 

~*~

“Uncle Greg, wake up,” John’s voice wavered as he poked Greg’s shoulder. The only response was a powerfully loud snore.

“What’s going on?” Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes.

John’s shoulders slumped when he saw Sherlock in the bed. It definitely wasn’t big enough for three. “I had a really bad dream. Never mind. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock rolled over and pulled the blankets back up; he was asleep before John left the room.

John stood on the landing, afraid to ask Mycroft for help but too afraid not to. He knocked quietly on Mycroft’s door. Hearing a garbled  _come in_ , John tiptoed into the room. “I had a bad dream. Could I—could I sleep in here?”

“Sure, honey,” Mycroft mumbled into the pillow and he patted the empty space next to him. The sheets felt soft against John’s chin as he sank down into the mattress. It didn’t take long for John to pull all the blankets to him, dreaming he was a bear hibernating on thick, gentle moss and covered in cozy fur.

Mycroft woke, shivering. John had stolen every blanket that had been on the bed, leaving him freezing. His brain fuzzy from exhaustion, Mycroft decided to sleep in John’s bed. Even if it were just a twin, at least no one would steal the covers.

**~*~**

Sherlock sat up in bed, fully awake, listening to Greg’s booming snores all night. He swore the noise made his teeth rattle. When he pushed Greg’s side, the snoring stopped but before long it was as bad as before.

“That’s it,” Sherlock thought. He poked Greg sharply in his side. It was kind of funny when Greg jumped out of bed. He’d have to remember that.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked, disoriented by the sleep and having another person in his bed.

“John had a bad dream. You should go see if he’s ok.” Sherlock sounded caring and concerned, worried about John’s welfare. What he wanted was to go back to sleep and didn’t mind stretching the truth to do it.

“Yeah, ok.” Greg stumbled out of his room and into John’s. He patted the lump in the bed and said, “It’s going to be ok. Don’t worry.”

Greg slid under the covers, trying to find room on the twin mattress. “When did John get so friggin huge. He needs a bigger bed.” Greg rolled on his side, bum to bum with the lump and fell asleep.

**~*~**

Sherlock rose before Greg’s alarm sounded, refreshed and ready to start the day. He fished clean clothes out of the baskets in the laundry room and poured a bowl of cereal, treating himself to breakfast and cartoons.

When the doorbell rang just as the 7 o’clock cartoons began, Sherlock thought nothing of answering it.

“Hello, Spirling,” Irene Adler pushed past Sherlock into the house. Sally followed with her camera and equipment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his Cheerios and cartoons.

Irene dug through her purse for a small mirror and her lipstick. She reapplied it, checking for smears. “Well, we might as well and go see how The Nanny starts his day.”

~*~

Mycroft stretched, creaky from sleeping in the twin bed. He rolled over. “Good morning, Gregory.”

Greg cracked his eyelid open. Mycroft looked so beautiful, lying there, sleep tousled. “Good morning, Mycroft.” He closed his eyes again, to rest them before he…

They jumped out of bed, staring at each other from opposite sides of the tiny mattress.

“What were you doing in my bed?” Mycroft asked, scrabbling for a blanket to cover himself.

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything.” Greg stuck both hands up in the air, trying to prove he hadn’t touched Mycroft. “What are you doing in here?”

“John had a nightmare. He asked to sleep in my bed, but he stole all of my blankets. I came in here.”

“Sherlock said John had a bad dream and I came in to make sure he was ok.”

“But he’s in my bed.”

“I know that now, but at 4, I saw a lump and thought…”

“Do you think my lump is the same as his?” Mycroft sounded offended, his voice almost hysterical.

“I’m not even going to answer that.” Greg knew his face and neck must be red from embarrassment. “It was an innocent mistake. That stupid movie…”

“Yes. That movie…” Mycroft regained his composure. “We were all undone by those ridiculous movies.”

Greg nodded, as he opened the door. “It’s a good thing you didn’t sleep naked last night. That would have been really awkward…”

“That sounds deliciously juicy,” Irene wiggled her eyebrows at the camera. “Care to share the details?”

The two men, naked from the waist up and obviously just awakened, stood in the bedroom doorway in front of the television camera.

“Good morning, Connecticut!” Irene said, her voice thick with innuendo.

“We’ll be right back.” Greg pushed Mycroft back into the bedroom before he slammed the door. “What are we gonna do? Please tell me there’s some secret passageway out of here.”

Mycroft stood speechless. “Do you think it’s too late to build one?” he finally managed eke out.

Irene knocked on the door. “Come on out, you two. Our viewers want to hear how you young, virile men start your morning together.”

“What in the world is going on?” Mrs. Hudson fussed, using her best angry-mother voice. She saw the smile on Irene’s face and her stomach fell. Nothing that made Irene happy could end well.

“Yes, viewers. You saw it here. Former major league baseball player Greg Lestrade stepped out of his bedroom with his delicious current very male employer in tow.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mrs. Hudson whispered, her voice a mix of shock and pride.

Greg opened the door. He’d struggled into one of John’s t-shirts, which extended only as far as Greg’s belly button. If he moved the wrong way, it would split at the sleeves. It emphasized his guilt. “This is a really funny story,” he chuckled, his hands shaking from nerves.

“You better hope so!” Mrs. Hudson said under her breath from behind Sally the Camerawoman.

The two men spoke over each other, explaining the movies, the bad dreams, the misunderstanding. Innocent mistake.

Irene listened and nodded. Occasionally, she’d look into the camera and wink, or smirk, or wiggle her eyebrows.  
Mycroft, who’d held himself in check, had heard enough of Irene Adler’s implications. “Ms. Adler, you cannot barge in to my home uninvited…” Mycroft stumbled over his words, anger and embarrassment keeping him from his typical eloquence.

“We were invited. Your brother Sharkey ( _“Sherlock, you idiot”_ Sally whispered loud enough so Irene could hear) Sherlock welcomed us in.” She smiled, happy to refute Mycroft.

“You can’t come in here and make these comments and wink at the camera, and take something that was innocent make it sound sordid,” Greg pointed his finger in Irene’s face. “And even if we did—do something, the Constitution guarantees we can do _that._ ”

“Freedom to assemble.” Mycroft added, trying to help.

“Yeah. Freedom to assemble. And illegal search and seizure, which you did!”

Irene smiled again for the camera. “Oh, I didn’t seize anything. Can you say the same?”

 

~*~

They’d thrown Irene Adler and her crew out of the house and put the boys onto the school jitney, money in their pockets for breakfast. Mrs. Hudson made coffee, telling them that it would make everything better. John insisted that, unless she put whiskey in it, it wasn’t going to make anything better.

“I spoke to my lawyer,” Mycroft collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. His stomach roiled and his pounding headache wasn’t helping that at all.

“What did he say?” Mrs. Hudson placed a mug in front of Mycroft, whose stomach lurched from the smell. Greg held his breath hoping for good news.

“When he stopped laughing, he told me we had no recourse except possibly going back to England.” He looked at Greg, a sad smile on both of their faces.

“It’s not that bad, dear,” Mrs. Hudson patted Mycroft’s shoulder. “It’s not like more than 2 maybe 3 million people will see it. The first time.” Mycroft dropped his head to the table, barely feeling the pain on his forehead.

“My employer insists that I keep a low profile, Mrs. Hudson. I intended to avoid the camera. Now everyone will think I’m engaging in sexual intercourse with my housekeeper.”

“Hey. You could do worse,” Greg shot back. He didn’t know whether to laugh at Mycroft’s language or be offended at the words.

“And he has, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said to Greg. “I’ve lived next to him for years. I’ve seen.”

Greg shook his head, not listening to Mrs. Hudson’s teasing. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll…I got us into this. I’ll get us out.”

“Do not try,” Mycroft said as he hoisted his briefcase strap onto his shoulder. “First, you cannot reason with a person such as she is. Second, you cannot reason with a person such as she is. Somehow, you will make it worse.” Mycroft left for work, hoping the bottle of antacid was still in his desk.

“Don’t worry, Greg,” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm, distracted by her own thoughts. “And don’t worry about Mycroft. He didn’t mean to sound like an ass about sleeping with his housekeeper. He’ll come around.”

_How does she always know?_

~*~

With the show scheduled to air after the local news that night, Greg had no choice but to convince Irene to scrap the tape. She’d agreed to meet him at the house to see if they could reach an agreement.

Greg dressed to impress her, made a proper pot of tea the way Mycroft had taught him, even baked a batch of shortbread cookies. When the doorbell rang, he steeled his nerves with a few deep breaths before he answered the door.

Greg closed the door and invited her to sit on the couch.

“I know why you’ve invited me here,” Irene sounded sultry as she crossed her legs, her skirt riding up her thigh. “You want me to cancel the episode, and you think you can convince me by having sex with me.”

“I wouldn’t try that—.” Greg stammered, since that was the furthest thing from his mind.

“You could.” Irene looked up at Greg through her lashes and leaned forward. “It might work.”

“My goodness, Ms. Adler. Returned to the scene of the crime?” Mrs. Hudson let herself in the front door and sat in Mycroft’s leather chair. She stared at Irene, no hint of goodwill on her face.

Irene laughed at Mrs. Hudson who seemed so calm and assured. She reminded herself to look into this Mrs. Hudson’s background.

“Greg, would you be a dear? The window in my guest bedroom is stuck. Would you fix it?”

“But—” Greg looked from Mrs. Hudson to Irene Adler, unsure that he should leave the women alone. Mrs. Hudson tilted her head toward the door. “Thank you, dear.”

Greg left them. Irene uncrossed her legs, smoothing any wrinkles from her skirt and attempted to stare Mrs. Hudson down. “You can’t change my mind.”

“Let’s just talk between us girls.” Mrs. Hudson poured Irene a cup of tea. “Last night, we watched horror movies. Low budget. Low talent.”

That caught Irene’s attention. Her muscles tensed, but she willed herself to remain calm. “Why are you telling me?”

“Perhaps you’ve seen _It Came from the Sewers on Broadway_?”

Irene’s stomach dropped. She shook her head.

“The young woman sang to her lover, who turned out to be a sewer monster. Imagine that.”

Irene sat in silence. She gripped her purse that lay in her lap.

“I couldn’t place that actress, so I googled the movie. When it was released years ago, the gossip columns reported that the young woman allegedly had sex with her leading man while he wore the monster costume.” Mrs. Hudson picked at non-existent lint on her cardigan. “I’d hate for the rumors to resurface with gifs and screen caps. Especially if that actress had a new career in to.”

Irene picked her purse and walked out without a word.

~*~

Greg made lasagna for dinner and garlic bread. And chocolate cupcakes. If they were going to die of mortification, at least they’d be well fed. Of course, they’d invited Mrs. Hudson to mourn with them.

“Let’s take these in front of the to,” Mrs. Hudson suggested and picked up her dessert plate. Greg noticed that she didn’t seem quite as defeated as he and Mycroft did.

Mycroft sent the boys to their rooms with their cupcakes. The suggestion was so out of character for Mycroft, that the two boys ran upstairs before he could change his mind.

“Well, this is it,” Greg sighed as he clicked the television on, scrolling to channel 11.

Mycroft slumped onto the couch next to Mrs. Hudson. “How can you be so calm?”

“It’s not my sex life display for the Tri-State area, dear.” Mrs. Hudson laughed as she took a bite of her cupcake, enjoying it immensely.

Irene Adler’s face filled their screen. “Welcome to _What Happened To_ … Tonight, we’ll peek into the lurid sex life of residents who’ll have you all abuzz.” She leered at the camera and winked.

“Oh God,” Mycroft said, wringing his hands in his lap.

“I’m really sorry that this happened Mycroft.” Greg smiled wanly and rubbed the back of his neck, not knowing what else to say. “Hold my hand, Mrs. Hudson.”

He reached for her hand; she grabbed Mycroft’s and slipped it into Greg’s just as Irene Adler said, “That’s right. The humble bumble bees have stopped having sex!”

Mycroft stared at the television, then looked to Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Clearly he hadn’t heard what he thought he heard. “Why isn’t my lurid sex life on television?”

Greg’s voice bubbled with relief. “Mrs. Hudson, what happened between you and Irene Adler today?”

“One benefit of being old is knowing how to speak to people. And how to use a little blackmail.” She smiled at her two boys, whom she’d grown to love as if they were her sons...who hadn't yet realized they were holding hands. “I’m going home now. This has all been too much for my heart.”

Mycroft and Greg watched the 15-minute show about bumblebees, teasing each other in Irene Adler’s voice. Mycroft snuck in closer to walk his fingers up Greg’s chest, saying in a high-pitched voice, “Oh you yummy yummy man. I could just. Eat. You. Up. With whipped cream.”

“I’ll bet you could.” The back of Greg’s neck tingled as Mycroft’s fingers touched him.

“Til next week.” Irene’s actual voice startled them back to said as she signed off. “And goodnight to all of Connecticut’s kinky creatures. You know who you are.” And she winked at the camera before the credits rolled.

Greg turned off the television, but before he could get up from the couch, Mycroft took his arm. “Gregory, we haven’t spoken at all about last night.”

“Nothing happened. I was under the covers and it’s not like I touched you or anything.”

“How do you know?”

“Because—I just do. I would have known if I’d y’know, touched you.” Greg knew that without a doubt, that he would have felt the frisson even in his sleep.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “True.” He was certain Greg hadn’t slung his arm over Mycroft and snuggled in close or entwined their ankles or even stroked his hair. But he’d spent all day wondering what it would have felt like if he had.

Mycroft picked up his empty coffee mug and examined the last drops in it. “Did you dream anything?”

Greg wouldn’t look at Mycroft. He was afraid Mycroft would somehow read on his face the contents of the X-rated dream. “Nah. You?”

“Not at all.” Mycroft grabbed his plate and mug to put into the kitchen sink. He needed to leave the room now; if he thought about the movie-length dream he’d had where Greg was the leading man—well, it would be all too obvious he was lying. “Had the best night’s sleep of my life.”


	6. Put Me In Coach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When almost 9 yo Sherlock begs Greg to teach him how to play baseball, who is Greg to deny him? Esp if it brings him closer to Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO late, but with good reason. Last thursday was my son's 15th bd. and then time got away from me. My sincere apologies. Also, i blame Lin-Manuel Miranda, because he wrote HAMILTON, and I have to listen to it, and I can't listen to that and write. IJS.
> 
> Pretend that an almost 9 yo kid can be on a team that's classified 11U (11 and under). Please. Also, pretend that it's kind of warm enough for John to do his homework outside. OK JUST SUSPEND ALL YOUR DISBELIEF FOR THIS CHAP
> 
> This is not based on an actual episode.
> 
> If it weren't for [221Btls](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls) and [GABM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/geronimoandbemagnificent) these fics would read like they were written by monkeys. GO READ THEIR WORKS.

“Are you supposed to be drowning it?”

Sherlock peered into the kitchen sink, wondering why Greg’s hand held a baseball glove under the water. “Here.” Greg took Sherlock’s hand and pressed it through the tepid water and onto the glove. “You hold it.”

Sherlock watched occasional bubbles rise as his fingers felt the leather becoming heavier as the water soaked in.

“It’s for John.” Greg pulled the waterlogged glove from the sink and stood it upright in the empty basin, allowing excess liquid to drain from it.

Sherlock watched, captivated by the process. “Why do you have to do all this to the mitten?”

Greg chuckled. “Glove. Only a catcher has a mitt. I’m conditioning it, making a good pocket for the ball. Y’know when you’re grabbing the ball and¬—” Sherlock looked at him blankly. Now he laughed at himself. “No, I guess you don’t.”

Greg poured a bowl of Cheerios and splashed milk in for an afterschool snack. Sherlock stirred the cereal around in the bowl, deep in thought.

When he was satisfied that enough water had drained, Greg brought the glove to the table and sat down with Sherlock. He pushed a baseball into the palm and cinched a belt around it to hold it closed. “I’ll stick this in the attic for a few days to let it dry.”

“Can I have one?” Sherlock spoke into his chest, not looking up.

Greg did a double take. “Wha?”

“Can I have a glove, too? Would you teach me to play?”

Greg blinked rapidly, hoping to find the right words. “Have you ever played a sport? Do you even know how sports work?”

Sherlock stood as tall as his eight-year-old self could. “I am captain of the school’s chess team.”

Greg hid his smile behind his hand. "Of course. Of course.”

Sherlock wanted him to stop teasing him. “And—” Sherlock crossed his arms and spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ve played violin for four years. I know how to stick with something when it's difficult.”

Greg took Sherlock’s hands into his and examined the soft palms and long delicate fingertips which were rougher than he expected to feel.

“Violin,” Sherlock challenged Greg. “I've played so long they’re just calloused now.”

In the time he and John had lived at Mycroft’s, Greg had never seen Sherlock take an interest in any sport. “I'll talk to your brother.” He blew a wet raspberry in Sherlock’s palm, making him giggle. “If he says okay, we’ll start tomorrow.”

~*~

 

“Absolutely not.” Mycroft didn’t even look over the top of his newspaper, wouldn’t entertain the topic.

Greg stood in front of him, his feet planted and arms folded. “Put the paper down.”

Mycroft bit his lip. He felt the vein throbbing in his jaw. No one spoke to Mycroft Holmes this way. “We have nothing to discuss.” He turned the page even though he hadn’t read one word of the previous one.

“Mycroft, please.” Greg eased the paper down so he could see his face. Those glasses. His heart stuttered watching Mycroft’s eyes flash grey-blue behind the lenses. He knew Mycroft wanted to end the discussion, wanted to leave the room, but Greg put his hand out to keep him in the chair.

Mycroft sighed. “Gregory. His hands. He has the talent to be a virtuoso, but if he breaks a finger or God forbid, his hand or wrist—”

“He watched me treat John’s glove. He asked me.” Greg’s eyes searched Mycroft’s for understanding. “He may be a genius and a prodigy, but he’s a kid. He needs the chance to be a kid.”

Greg saw it in Mycroft’s lips. They had been set in a straight line, firmly against the idea. But Greg had hit a chord, hit something that unsettled Mycroft, who frowned and looked away.

“My parents left me in charge of him. I couldn’t even reach them if I wanted to. I’m responsible for his welfare.” The pressure in the words weighed on them both. “I know in seconds what is best for nations, but I’m immobilized when it is my brother.” Mycroft laughed at the irony.

“Let me teach him. I’ll take him into the back yard, and we’ll try.” Encouraged by Mycroft’s slow nods, Greg said, “And maybe he’ll lose interest after an hour.”

“Gregory, my brother has never once lost interest when he’s set his mind to something,” Mycroft sighed. He dropped the newspaper onto his empty chair. “I’ll be in my office.”

As Mycroft left the room, Greg said, “Thank you. We’ll will be as careful as we can.”

Mycroft turned to Greg and nodded. “I know. And I know you want him to be happy as much as I do.” He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

Greg wanted to reach out to Mycroft. A hand on the shoulder, rub his back to take away some of the obvious stress. Instead, he said, “I’m glad you’re wearing your glasses. All the better to see me with.” He waggled his brows.

Mycroft cringed at the allusion. “I just hope I’m not throwing my brother to the big bad wolf.” He walked away to the sound of Greg’s laughter. Mycroft smiled and pushed his glasses back up on his nose.

~*~

 

Greg waited until after the school jitney dropped Sherlock and John back home the next day to surprise Sherlock.

Sherlock whooped with excitement. “How did you do that?”

“Pretty sure I bargained away my first born child,” Greg teased. “Let's just say--if you break any part of your body we'll have to move to Canada.”

John tackled Sherlock and wrestled him to the ground. “That’s awesome. I want to help coach him.”

Greg hauled John off Sherlock and sent the boys to their rooms to change into sweat pants and t-shirts.

John dashed off, but Sherlock stared at Greg, waiting for an explanation.

“Don't you own sweatpants? A gym uniform?”

Blank stare. “I told you. I swapped P.E. for coding.”

“That's right,” Greg said, pushing his hair off his face. “We already did this once. Do you have something comfortable you can put on?”

Sherlock looked at Greg as if he’d had lost his mind and left the room. He passed John who was running back to the kitchen, wearing a pair of royal blue sweatpants with New York Mets written in bright orange down the right leg.

When he returned, Sherlock wore a pair of crisply ironed khakis and a pristine white shirt.

“Play clothes, Sherlock.” Greg pinched his lips together. This really shouldn’t be hard, he thought.

“These are my play clothes.”

Greg realized two truths simultaneously. First, _why the hell am I ironing play clothes?_ And second, _this kid needs to be a kid._ “OK boys. Get in the Range Rover.”

“I have homework,” Sherlock explained, shocked at Greg’s recklessness on a school night.

“We're going to the store. You’re not playing baseball in these.” Greg pointed at Sherlock’s clothes. “Out to the car, please.”

Greg lifted the top of the Buckingham Palace cookie jar where Mycroft hid his most important papers. Greg rummaged around until he pulled out a white envelope, with for emergencies only written and underlined in Mycroft's precise penmanship. He withdrew the American Express Platinum card. This kid was getting play clothes. Greg couldn’t believe that this was as dressed down as Sherlock got. If anything counted as an emergency Sherlock’s wardrobe definitely did.

The Range Rover looked woefully out of place in the Walmart’s parking lot. When Greg parked, Sherlock asked, “What is this place?”

Both Greg and John stared at Sherlock, certain he was joking.

“Don’t be stupid,” John punched Sherlock’s arm. “You know what Walmart is.”

“I actually don’t.” Sherlock eyebrows crinkled as he stared out the window at the tan and navy building. “What do they sell?”

“Candy, sports stuff, toys, junk food…” John counted the items on his fingers, smiling wider with each one he named.

“And clothes. Let’s go.” Greg herded the two boys into the store. Sherlock looked confused by the size, the noise, the quick pace. John grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him toward the bakery for a free cookie.

Sherlock stood in place at the bakery; his every sense felt overloaded, frazzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one store at a time.”

“Sure you have--where do you go for your groceries?” John stopped and gaped at Sherlock. Everyone goes food shopping.

Sherlock explained that the market delivered groceries to their house or they went to the store with its dim, warm lights, dark floor and tin ceilings. John laughed, certain Sherlock was messing with him, but he wasn’t.

They ate their chocolate chip cookies on the way to boys’ clothes. Sherlock stood completely still as Greg held pair after pair of sweatpants against him, checking the length of the legs and the width of the waist.

“I’ve never had¬ rack clothes before.” Sherlock said as Greg piled 5 pairs of sweat pants, 5 t-shirts, and two packages of white ribbed socks into the cart. “We need to buy some sneakers before we get to the really exciting part.”

“Yuck. Shoes. Shoe shopping is the worst!” John whispered to Sherlock. This he understood. When he shopped with Mycroft, they went to the shoe store after the tailor’s. He knew about trying shoes on, about the toe wiggling and the heel staying where it belonged.

From there, they searched out the sports equipment, where Sherlock tried on glove after glove until Greg was satisfied with the fit. Sherlock was a genius and a natural at everything he attempted; Greg knew Sherlock would be the easiest person he’d ever coached.

Coaching Sherlock was a nightmare.

When they returned home, the boys changed their clothes and met Greg in the backyard. He’d made a pizza delivery order for 6:30pm; that would give them a few hours to play before dusk with enough time for the boys to clean themselves up before Mycroft came home.

Greg warmed up his arm as he waited in the backyard. Mid October, and the oak trees burst into outrageous shades –carrot and maroon, honey and amber. He laughed at the flattened pile of leaves; he’d sent John and Sherlock out to rake, because they were eager for pocket money. Now he saw they’d made only one pile and scattered and splattered the leaves each time they’d jumped in. That was the raucous laughter Greg had heard the day before.

Greg stood about 10 feet from John and threw the ball to him. The overhand throw popped as it hit John's glove. "Good one!"

He and John threw the ball back and forth. They pointed out the way they held their gloves, how they stepped into the catch, the follow-through after they released the ball.

Greg positioned Sherlock—feet apart, knees flexed. Leaning forward on the ball of his feet to anticipate movement. “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration

"Remember! Feet apart. On your toes. Knees flexed. Glove ready."

Greg lobbed the ball from less than 5 feet away.

Sherlock watched as it hit the ground in front of him.

“That's okay,” Greg said. “First time’s always difficult. Send the ball back.”

Sherlock walked the ball to Greg and placed it inside the glove. “You could have thrown it,” Greg said with a smile. Sherlock shrugged in response.

He tossed the ball to Sherlock, who lunged for it. His glove overshot the ball by three feet.

“Eye on the ball, Sherlock.” Greg encouraged him with positive chatter. “You got this! Now throw it back to me.”

“What if you miss it?” Sherlock asked, his voice tinged with worry.

Greg smiled at that. He’d played pro ball. He could catch anything.

Sherlock’s first attempt flew high over Greg's head and landed in the pile of partially raked leaves.

The next ten fared no better. Except for the one that sailed over the fence. They heard the clatter of the glass as the ball smashed the window.

“John Watson!” Mrs. Hudson shrieked through the hole, her face framed by the jagged glass. “I’ve warned you about playing baseball in your yard!”

“It wasn’t John,” Greg kept his voice calm, although he wanted to strangle Sherlock. “I will board it up for you and replace the glass tomorrow.”

“You should know better, Greg Lestrade.” They heard her muttering as she walked away from the window.

“She’s just angry that she couldn’t slam the window for effect.” Sherlock laughed with nervous energy. He had no idea what Mycroft would say about this when he came home.

Sherlock hadn’t come close to catching the ball once. Even though Greg had moved close enough to place the ball into the pocket, he stood back and encouraged him to _“keep your eye on the ball!”_

John lost interest in retrieving the lost balls and brought his backpack into the yard. He dumped his school books out and sat at the patio table to do his homework while Greg explained the fundamentals to Sherlock. Over and over. At this point, even homework was better than this.

Within the first 30 minutes, Greg silently deemed Sherlock the most unteachable player he’d ever had.

“What do you say we switch to hitting?” Greg worked to keep his face supportive.

He repositioned Sherlock, stance wide, knees flexed. Feet ready to move. They took a few practice swings together. Talked about the body’s twist as it hit the ball and the all-important follow through.

For Sherlock’s first swing, Greg stood behind him and placed his large hands over Sherlock’s small hands. John pitched the ball underhand. “Swing,” Greg said as he and Sherlock pulled through the pitch.

After that Greg stepped away, allowing Sherlock to swing on his own. John lobbed the ball and Sherlock swung. Great footwork. Awesome job keeping his eye on the ball.

Terrible job keeping his hands on the bat.

He swung and the bat shot out of his hand right at John’s face. He ducked and covered his head with his arms.

When the bat landed behind John, he stood up to his 5'1 frame and yelled, “Jeez, are you trying to kill me?”

They heard a car pull into the driveway, the crunch of the gravel under the tires. “Dinner’s here, kids,” Greg said. “Go inside and wash up for dinner. I’ll grab the equipment.” Before they closed the back door, he yelled, “Great first practice, Sherlock!”

Once the door slammed shut, Greg hung his head and slowly shook it. Maybe some kids were just art and lit kids. He heard footsteps and pulled his wallet out to pay the pizza delivery man.

“How much did it come to?” Greg asked, rifling through his wallet for the payment and tip.

“How about you just do the dishes and we’ll call it even?”

Greg looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face. Mycroft stood at the end of the driveway holding two pizza boxes in his hands. Maybe he was just hungry, that weird feeling in his stomach, like want and give mixed into liquid heat. Mycroft standing there in his bespoke suit, holding steaming boxes, and smiling at him. Like seeing Greg was the best part of his day.

Greg pushed his hair off his forehead and smiled once more before picking up the baseballs and the lethal bat. “We were just practicing,” he explained as he wandered the yard looking for baseballs, dropping them into the ball bag.

Mycroft had no idea what to say. Even if he had, every thought was lost as he watched Greg bend at the waist to pick up the balls scattered all over the yard. Mycroft forced himself to leave before Greg finished. He would be hard pressed to explain that away.

Dinner was a leisurely recounting of everyone’s day while asking for more pizza and handing slices around. Sherlock never spoke unless he had something important to say. No idle chatter, no recap of the day. But that night at dinner, Sherlock told Mycroft in painstaking detail about his first practice. The effect of the wind on the ball when Greg threw it and the sting on his palm when Greg helped him catch it. And Walmart. Of course.

“Did you know that there are 22 ways to get a player to first base without hitting a single?” Sherlock asked as he grabbed his third slice of pizza.

“I had no idea,” Greg said, his eyebrows raised at the baseball fact and at the third slice of pizza.

“These include spectator interference, which is different from fan obstruction. If a fair ball hits a runner or an ump. If there’s an error, or a pitcher uses one of the four illegal pitches. What are the four illegal pitches? Can you show me?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up in the way they did when he was wrestling with a difficult problem or was struggling with an issue in his “mind treehouse.”

“Where did you learn all of this?” Mycroft looked to Greg, silently asking if he’d taught Sherlock this trivia.

Greg shook his head no, silently saying, _not me—I have no idea where this is coming from_. Oh good God. Sherlock had begun his research phase. Used to the intensity of his brother’s passions, Mycroft smiled in sympathy knowing full well what Greg would be facing in the next week

Mycroft finally shut down the conversation at 8pm. "Showers, pajamas, teeth and reading before bed." He shooed the boys upstairs and Sherlock complied without a fight.

“Thank you again, Uncle Greg,” he said with a shy smile before rushing out of the kitchen. He hit the stairs, but came back to Mycroft. “Thank you to you, too,” Sherlock said to his brother and threw a quick hug at him.

Mycroft held back a teasing snark. Sherlock squeezed one last time and then ran up the stairs. Greg watched this unusual brotherhood moment which was the most precious part of the day.

Once the boys were gone, Mycroft folded his hands in front of him on the table. “I'd appreciate your take on today.”

Greg avoided Mycroft’s eyes. "It's a work in progress." He couldn’t tell the truth; he felt like he’d be betraying Sherlock if he did.

Mycroft caught Greg’s wrist before he moved and his voice softened. “I know my brother’s fervor. He can inspire passion if he chooses. But I also know my brother’s limitations. He is capable of great things, but not one will involve a ball, a bat or a club.”

Greg sat. “He’ll be ok. If it’s okay with you, I’m gonna make him an honorary member of John’s team. We just have a few more games this season. He’ll get a uniform and be able to sit on the bench. It would take an act of God to get him in a game. “

Mycroft nodded. He’d already agreed to so many things he never thought he would. One may well hang for a sheep as a lamb.

Greg stacked the dirty dishes. “If nothing else, he’ll learn about working together to achieve a goal.”

“And Walmart. He clearly learned quite a bit about Walmart.”

~*~

By the next morning, it was obvious to everyone that Sherlock had read something well past his bedtime.

_“The Baseball Almanac says… A little known fact is…According to Bill James…_ ” Sherlock’s eyes were glued to his phone screen, swiping, typing, tapping.

Greg slid a plate of toast in front of Sherlock. “According to Greg, put your phone away and eat.”

Sherlock snuck his phone onto his lap and continued to read as he nibbled at a slice of toast, thick with butter and honey.

When the school jitney honked twice, Sherlock spouted a stream of trivia to John as they dashed out the front door, and John was happy to listen.

That afternoon, Greg and John realized that all the trivia and baseball facts did nothing for Sherlock’s skill.

Not in batting.

Or throwing.

Or catching.

“That’s it for today,” Greg said after only a half hour.

Sherlock dropped his head, staring at his new sneakers. “Is it because I…”

“Because we have a 5 o’clock game.”

The boys followed Greg inside. He’d folded John’s clean uniform and left it on the table, WATSON 22 visible on the back of the shirt. Stacked next to John’s was a new uniform, immaculate white with blue letters. HOLMES 23.

“You are an honorary Marvin’s Market Minuteman.” Greg nudged Sherlock toward the white uniform with red and blue pinstripes. “It’s yours. Welcome to the team.”

Sherlock approached the outfit as if it were a holy relic. “Really?”

John rolled his eyes. “Jeez, it’s just a uniform. C’mon. let’s get changed or we’ll be late to the game. And the coach can be a total jerk if you’re like even a minute late.” They scooped up their uniforms and raced upstairs.

~*~

Sherlock watched in silence from the team bench, taking in the ballet of the game. Movement and timing. All the things Greg had taught him.

After a rare win for the 11-and-under team, Greg treated them to ice cream. Sherlock sat by himself at the end of a picnic table, lost in his thoughts. He didn’t notice when Greg placed a cup of ice cream in front of him.

“It’s all physics, isn’t it?”

Greg’s forehead wrinkled as he thought through the comment. “Gotta give me more to work with than just that, bud.”

“Baseball. It’s the drag of the air as the ball pushes through it. The force with which the bat hits the ball. The relative speed of the ball as it’s hit. It’s quite a lot to consider.”

Greg nodded, understanding almost nothing that Sherlock’d said. He knew little beyond what a teacher had tried to hammer into his head in high school, which still came to nothing more than “matter can neither be created nor destroyed.”

~*~

The following afternoon, Sherlock backed out of practice. “I have more studying to do.” He disappeared to his room.

After he and John had cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Sherlock asked Greg with forced casualness, “If we turned on the back lights, could we practice, just for a few minutes?”

The spotlights cast long shadows in the yard; the nearly leafless trees seemed spookier than in the daylight. Greg squatted behind Sherlock, far enough away to avoid getting clocked by the bat. Sherlock stood in the light, but the pitch would come from the shadows.

Not that it mattered. Sherlock had yet to hit the ball with any part of the bat.

“No pitcher. No pitcher.”

Greg looked behind him. Mycroft stood in the open doorway, bathed in the soft, yellowed light from the kitchen. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who’d studied. Greg’s smile grew; he mouthed, _“No pitcher?_ ”

Mycroft shrugged. He felt like he’d exposed his secret, like he should be embarrassed. But Greg’s smile made him feel happy and a little something more.

Greg whispered to Sherlock, who turned to Mycroft and pointed to a spot in the far left corner of the yard.

“Really, Babe? You’re gonna point to where the ball is going?” Greg laughed at the boy’s chutzpah. He hadn’t connected his bat to a ball before…

“Simple physics, Uncle Greg. Throw the ball, John.”

John lobbed the ball across the imaginary plate. Sherlock swung and spun around from his overzealous follow through.

Sherlock shook his head in anger. _“Timing and precision over velocity. Watch the ball.”_ He’d taken this swing hundreds of times in his mind treehouse since he’d realized baseball is physics. Sherlock concentrated on the science as John threw the next pitch.

He kept his eye on the ball as it switched from dark to light, and as he swung, the edge of his bat connected with the ball, which dribbled back to where John stood.

Greg shouted behind him, overjoyed at the success. “You did it! You hit it.”

“It wasn’t much,” Sherlock admitted. “But now that I understand, I just have to practice…”

“You can practice in your dreams tonight,” Mycroft suggested patiently. “School tomorrow.”

Over the next few days, Sherlock’s confidence grew even if his ability to consistently connect with the ball hadn’t. Catching the ball used his coordination from violin lessons, but his throwing was still likely to take out a window or someone’s eye.

 ~*~

 

“Last game today!” John whooped as he pushed open the kitchen door. “We’re gonna kick some Marlins butts!”

“Fuel for the game. Eat up!” Greg slid a plate of eggs and bacon in front of John and left one at Sherlock’s empty place.

“C’mon sleepy head,” Greg called. “Breakfast.”

“I was up until the wee hours on a conference call to Moscow,” Mycroft said as he sat at the table in Sherlock’s spot.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, dork,” Greg said with a chuckle as he pulled Sherlock’s plate away before Mycroft could dip his fork into the eggs. “You get oatmeal.”

“Did I hear you call my brother a dork?” Sherlock said as he slid into his chair. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced.

“Did you stay up beyond your bed time yet again?” Mycroft sighed. “With the additional exercise, you must eat more and sleep more. It’s a biological imperative.” Greg nodded, backing Mycroft up.

Sherlock mumbled something about sleeping when he needed it and not a minute before. He was too keyed up even to eat, and pushed the food around until they had to leave.

~*~

Parents and families crammed the small stands at the Little League field. Sherlock craned his neck from the bench, looking for Mycroft. Amid moms and dads in team sweatshirts and team colors, chatting with each other and yelling out, Mycroft sat in stately silence, charcoal gray suit and umbrella in the event of inclement weather.

Greg’s Minutemen team had a one run lead going into the last inning. If they kept the Marlins from scoring, they’d win the game and end the season with a record of 7 wins and 5 losses.

A big kid on the Marlins, who Greg would later describe as at least 25 in the 11 and Under league, and possibly smoking a stogie, hit a line drive through the center of the field. The Minutemen pitcher’s foot slipped as he lunged out of the way and fell, slamming down on his left shoulder. A runner scored to tie the game. Greg walked out to the mound to check on Philip. _Likely to have a nasty bruise_ , Greg had said to the pitcher, _but I don’t think it’s broken_.

Retaking the mound, the Philip threw one lucky (very painful) pitch and the batter grounded into a double play to end the Marlins’ half of the inning.

“Come here, guys.” Greg pulled the team around him while the Marlins took the field. “We need one run to have a winning season. We can do this! Up to bat we have Dimmock, Donovan, and Anderson.”

Sherlock, who’d been keeping the scoring book, looked up at Greg. “Coach, Philip’s arm is still hurting from when he fell.”

Greg looked over to the pitcher, sitting on the end of the bench obviously holding back tears. “Dimmock and Donovan, take your practice swings.” He broke away from the team to check on Philip. They whispered as Greg manipulated Philip’s left shoulder up and down, back and forth. Sherlock brought an ice pack to them and held it until Greg noticed.

“I don’t think anything’s broken, Philip,” Greg said. “We’ll let your parents know though.” Philip nodded, crying quietly.

They heard the crowd cheer, and when Greg made it back to the fence at the Minutemen bench, they had runners at 1st and 3rd base.

“Who’s up, Coach?” Sherlock asked, looking at the score book. “Not everyone is here today, and you already made two substitutions.”

Greg jogged out to the home-plate umpire and pulled his roster out of his back pocket. He pointed to their bench then to the roster. The ump nodded, and Greg came to Sherlock.

“Alright, Sherlock. It’s all you.” Greg’s smile filled his face as he patted Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s all me what?” Sherlock’s hat brim hid his face, and he took it off to see Greg.

“It’s all you, babe. Your turn at bat!”

Sherlock panicked. His legs felt wobbly and uncertain, and in no way would take him to the plate.

The umpire called his name and Sherlock nearly tripped over his feet. From behind the plate, the tank-shaped catcher sized Sherlock up in a second. Too tall, too scrawny. No threat. He hollered out to his teammates on the field, “No batter. Move in,” as he waved the outfielders in and brought the infielders close to the pitcher.

Sherlock swung hard at the first pitch, a huge windmill swing, not coming close to the ball.

“Sherlock,” Greg called from the sideline. It meant settle down.

After such a huge swing the first time, Sherlock over-compensated and swung late the second time, with the ball already behind him.

“Sherlock…” Greg called again, his voice wavering and unsure. He’d made a mistake putting Sherlock in.

“No pitcher,” one voice called, lost in the sea of cheers and boos. But not lost to Sherlock.

“You okay?” Greg asked, and Sherlock winked at him. Winked. That little shit. If he…

Gloating on the mound, the pitcher threw the last strike of the game. Sherlock waited for the right moment, with the ball at the sweet spot and swung the bat at a 45° angle, shocking everyone except himself.

His bloop fly landed behind the infielders who’d been pulled in too close and too far from the outfielders who had lost interest after the first strike. The fielders all scrambled for the ball but not before Dimmock hit home plate with the winning run.

Led by John, the team swarmed Sherlock whose feet were planted on 1st so he wouldn’t be tagged out.

“Sherlock Holmes, you son of a…” Greg grabbed him into a hug. “You did that on purpose.”

“I thought maybe a little of my acting skill would be useful.” Sherlock laughed as he stepped back into the throng of his teammates.

Greg turned and stood almost chest to chest with Mycroft, whose eyes sparkled with happiness.

“Excellent effort, Coach,” Mycroft said, extending his hand to shake in congratulations.

“We don’t shake hands in baseball. Real men hug it out.” Greg’s laughter bubbled out through his words. He pulled Mycroft into a bear hug, once again imagining their touches more private, more intimate. Their hug lingered until Mycroft pulled back.

“You were very kind to do this for Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded oddly formal, uncomfortable.

“I kind of love him,” Greg shrugged off the compliment. “He’s an odd duck, but he’s my little duck.”

“I feel the same about John,” Mycroft stuttered. “You two are the best thing that’s happened to us. Not just the house and Sherlock. For me, too.”

Greg didn’t hear what he just heard. He tilted his head to the side, and took his cap off, stuffing it in his back pocket. “For you?”

Mycroft pulled his shoulders back and straightened his cuffs. “I was wondering if you might agree to go out to—”

The players converged on them, separating the two men. Someone splashed the bucketful of Gatorade at Greg, the orange color staining the back of his uniform. “You’re the best coach ever,” one player said. “Just wait til Spring!” another added.

By the time Greg got back to Mycroft, the moment was gone.

“Celebratory ice lollies all around.” Mycroft pointed to the ice cream truck that idled in the parking lot. “I’ll be right there.”

“You were asking—” Greg prompted Mycroft, his racing pulse having nothing to do with the game they’d just won.

Mycroft hesitated. “If you would like an ice lolly, also.” He looked at the mob of boys at the truck. “Might take a little time, but it should be worth the wait.” Mycroft turned back to Greg, offering him a shy smile.

Greg’s silly grin answered. “Yeah. I don’t mind waiting for something good. Sometimes waiting makes things even better. Be sure you get the one you want.”

They walked side by side to the food truck, occasionally bumping shoulders. “Y’know, you’re supposed to wear play clothes to these things.”

Mycroft pulled at his suit jacket and straightened his tie. “These are my play clothes.”

Greg shook his head in mock disgust as they waited their turn in line. “Walmart’s open 24 hours,” he said casually.

Mycroft snickered and the two of them broke into laughter.

“It’s a date.”


	7. Thx fr th Mmrs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft's University roommate Jim comes for a visit, he makes Mycroft feel like a goofy, awkward teenager again and Greg can't stand it. Especially when Jim knows what he wants. Or should I say Who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A billion thanks to GABM and 221Btls who try to keep me on point. When I'm not you know it's me not them. 
> 
> The song Greg sings is Roxanne by the Police n

Perched on the edge of the couch in his living room, Mycroft straightened his back and rolled his shoulders. Even with a full day’s work literally in front of him, he preferred to be home on weekends now. The soft cushions and the warm sun felt much nicer than his dreary basement office. It felt more like a home now when the boys’ laughter floated in from outside or when Greg yelled at the oven or dishwasher.

Today Mycroft enjoyed the relative silence as he pushed through his files. Mrs. Hudson had taken the boys to their Cub Scouts’ meeting. Greg’s voice drifted from somewhere in the house, singing as he cleaned. With a smile and a contented sigh, Mycroft cleaned his glasses and put them back on before diving back into his work.

Greg eased through the kitchen door, his arms stretched around two stacked baskets of clean laundry. He dropped them onto the hardwood floor in front of the couch with a slam.

“Hey, Boss. How's the work going?” Greg looked over Mycroft’s shoulder at a document with EYES ONLY written in bold, red capital letters.

“Must you call me that?” Mycroft adopted a weary, put-upon tone and slapped his folder over the secure document.

“I lost our bet, and I’m a man of my word. Boss.” Greg bit his lips to hide his smile. He felt it again, joy welling up inside.

“I hereby end your consequence.” Mycroft tried to look beneficent, but he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“No. I promised to call you _Boss_ for a full day if you beat me and the boys at MarioKart. You won. You cheated, but you won.” Greg sat on the floor, more interested in teasing Mycroft than in the laundry. He liked the crinkles at the corners of Mycroft’s eyes, and the way the tip of his tongue stuck out between his lips when he was trying not to laugh.

“I did nothing so pedestrian as cheat. I simply employed alternate strategies for success.” Mycroft laughed low and lilting, and that was just wrong. As was what it did to Greg, sitting crossed-legged in jeans that were now uncomfortably tight.

“That’s right, Boss.” Greg threw a folded pair of socks at Mycroft’s head. Instead of catching them, Mycroft covered his face with his arm. “Sherlock’s baseball lessons didn’t help you at all.”

Mycroft looked over the top of his reading glasses and pulled a face. "I have a few things I must complete if I am to go to my alumni dinner this evening."

"Your lah-di-dah reunion is tonight." Greg sat crossed legged on the floor and folded laundry, the piles growing quickly around him. “Your suit is hanging in your closet, fresh from the cleaner’s.”

“Thank you for doing that. I haven't seen some of these people since I graduated from university. It’s our 5-year reunion for those of us living in the States."

"You graduated at 18?" Greg stopped folding laundry as he worked the math.

Mycroft dipped his head so Greg wouldn’t see him blush. "I was a bit more advanced than my peers.”

Greg keeled over onto one of his piles in a mock faint. “A bit more advanced? That’s like saying the ’62 Mets had a kinda bad season.” Greg’s giggles met silence. He sat up and said, “First season? They went 40 and 120?” Hs voice trailed off. “Never mind.”

“Now I really must finish.” Mycroft handed Greg the pair of wayward socks and picked up his pen.

Greg mimed zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key. They sat in silence, Mycroft annotating the document while Greg folded laundry.

The silence lasted 72 seconds. Greg hummed quietly, and Mycroft grated his teeth as he thought “this is ok. I can deal with this. This isn’t distracting. I can do this.”

“Roxxxxxxanne. You don't have to put on the red light—” As he folded underwear, Greg belted The Police’s song, not realizing he’d even sung out loud.

“Gregory!” Mycroft scolded, glaring at him. Why was he trying to get anything done here? Had he really thought this was better than his nice, quiet, distraction-free office?

"Oh sorry, Boss. Sorry." Chagrined, Greg apologized and tried to focus on the laundry.

Greg lasted as long as he could. Fold. Stack. Fold. Stack. Fold. Stack. Whistle.

Mycroft stared, knowing that one vein in his jaw was throbbing because he was grinding his teeth. Greg smiled a weak apology, and Mycroft simply gave up the idea of working in the living room. He shuffled through his papers, arranging them in some order that made sense to him.

Greg watched him side-eyed. “Now that you’re done, are you gonna sing The Police?” He looked from Mycroft to the stacked papers and folders.

Mycroft's snicker sent Greg into laughter until the doorbell interrupted them. “Perhaps we need a new doorbell. Something more contemporary than Beethoven.”

Greg smiled mischievously and rewrote The Police’s Roxanne. He sang, “Doooooooooor-bell. You don't have to get up and answer. Don't leave the couch to get it. I won't share you with another boy.”

Mycroft's quiet snicker turned into belly laughs as his eyes followed Greg to the door. “Don't quit your day job.” He was glad Greg’s back was to him, because he was fairly certain that his pupils were in the shape of cartoon hearts.

“You have no ear for music.” Greg turned to Mycroft, who quickly looked back to his papers.

Greg opened the front door, and stared open mouthed at the man standing at the door. Well over 6’ tall. Light brown hair. Chocolate brown eyes. A day’s stubble, artfully shaved to look casual. But the cheekbones. He could cut himself on those cheekbones. Greg knew he was being rude but this man looked like a movie star. If Tom Hiddleston had a more drop-dead gorgeous younger brother, it would be this man.

“I'm sorry. I was looking for the Holmes residence.” The gentleman caller turned to leave.

_Of course. Another fancy Brit._

“James?" Mycroft swiveled toward the voice. “James Moriarty?”

“Mycroft Holmes. There you are!” He stepped into the house and shook Mycroft's hand before pulling him into a hug. He leaned back, looking Mycroft up and down. "But where’s the rest of you?”

“This is all of me,” Mycroft smiled and released the hug, uncomfortable at the joke. “Gregory, this is my roommate from University, James. Gregory is my housekeeper.”

“Oh. Is that what they're calling it these days?” Moriarty snickered, entertained by the thought of a sexualized Mycroft. “He says this is all of me, like he’s always been thin. At University, he was twice the man he is now,” Moriarty said in a stage whisper to Greg.

Greg’s eyes bored into Mycroft’s. “Are you gonna let him say that?” His eyes asked. Mycroft shrugged as if to say, “It’s nothing. It’s fine.”

Moriarty looked around Mycroft’s home with its tasteful 18th-Century finishes and furnishings. “Your house is—charming,” he said, waiting a beat before he found the word charming. He buttoned his suit jacked against the chill. “It is so hard to keep these drafty old places warm, though, isn't it?”

Moriarty’s wide smile and snarky words wrapped in compliments and kindness set Mycroft off-balance.

“I—I didn't expect I'd see you before tonight's dinner. I have a great deal of work to do…”

“Yes.” Moriarty smiled as he examined the titles in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “You always did have trouble finishing things.”

Greg watched Moriarty the same way that he watched playground bullies around John and Sherlock; he didn’t like this man. Nevertheless, he was a friend of Mycroft’s, and it wasn’t his place to judge. “Do you live around here?”

“Goodness, no.” Moriarty turned from the bookcase with a blinding smile. “I just flew in. I thought I might spend time at my family’s cottage in Hyannis Port and come to this affair.”

The name achieved its desired effect on Greg--American royalty, the wealthy, the old money. He gasped audibly at the name. Moriarty slid a half smile across his face. “Did you bring your family?” Greg asked. He couldn’t imagine someone with enough affluence to rub shoulders with the Kennedys.

“You mean wife and children? Darling, no. No one will ever tie me down to such domestication.” He shuddered visibly at the thought. “Certainly not like the two of you. So disgustingly settled. All that's missing is—”

John and Sherlock blew through the front door in their Cub Scout uniforms. “Look! We learned how to tie knots.” John showed the group his rope with two square knots, unaware they had a guest.

“Knowing this will come in quite handy for subduing people,” Sherlock agreed, dangling his rope filled with sample knots. He stared at their guest, culling bits of information.

Mrs. Hudson massaged her wrists as she sat on the couch. “Next time you take these monsters to Scouts. I'm not going to let Sherlock tie me up again.” She saw the stranger standing. “Oh, Lord, I mean—”

“James, I'd like you to meet our neighbor and friend, Mrs. Hudson.”

Moriarty grazed his lips across the back of Mrs. Hudson’s hand. “A pleasure.”

Greg rolled his eyes and elbowed Mycroft meaning “What a douchecanoe.” Mycroft elbowed him back meaning “Restrain yourself, Gregory.”

“My brother, Sherlock.” As Sherlock extended his hand, Mycroft said, “This is a friend from University. Mr. Moriarty.”

“How do you do, young man?” James leaned over to meet Sherlock's eyes as they shook hands.

Sherlock looked from Mycroft to Moriarty. Something was off, wrong between the two of them and Sherlock was torn. Clearly this man made Mycroft uncomfortable, which was in Moriarty's favor. But there was something about him that Sherlock didn't trust. Like he wanted to be Sherlock's best friend but really didn't like him at all. And didn't he know that John was his BFF?

“And this is Greg’s nephew, John.” To Mycroft’s mortification, John responded with a _Bro_.

“Are you staying at our house?” Sherlock asked, eyeing Moriarty with suspicion.

“I wouldn't dream of imposing." James waved off the suggestion while making himself comfortable on the couch.

“As I said,” Mycroft explained again. “I have a great deal of work this weekend...”

“I haven't seen big brother Mycroft for five years,” Moriarty said, disappointment tinging his voice. “It would be lovely to catch up, but I don't want to impose—”

“Can you even cancel your hotel without a cancellation fee?” Greg said, aghast someone could be so irresponsible.

“I'm sure I can! Thank you.” He smiled at Greg and said to Mycroft, “Isn't he cheeky? Inviting male friends to stay over. I see why you chose him. He's full of life!”

Moriarty pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to Greg. “Would you be a dear and grab my things from the Jaguar.”

Greg took the keys as politely as he could. He returned with a full size suitcase, a carry bag, and a garment bag. “Jeez, Jim, what do you have in this suitcase? A dead body?” Greg asked out of breath; Moriarty ignored his jibe.

“So. Mycroft.” Moriarty folded his hands in his lap and turned to Mycroft, who stood behind the couch, trying to appear at ease. “What keeps you busy when you’re not playing daddy?”

The condescension in Moriarty’s words scraped against Greg’s spine. “He—”

Mycroft touched Greg's elbow surreptitiously to keep him from divulging anything he might know or think he knew. “I occupy a minor position at the British consulate in New York City.”

Greg’s head whipped toward Mycroft. Minor positions weren't up till all hours negotiating with Russia or North Korea. Minor officials didn't say words like nuclear threat and troop deployment.

“ _Why did you lie?”_ Greg silently asked.

 _“I have to_ ,” was all Mycroft’s eyes would say.

“I remember my first job for the Queen,” Moriarty said, settling into the couch. “ David asked me to take a position in the Home Office. David. David Cameron.” He offered it casually, to let them know it was no big deal.”

At the mention of the Prime Minister, Greg glanced at Mycroft, who was picking at an invisible hangnail.

“After that I almost flew up the ladder. Now I’m a cog in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.” Moriarty put his finger in front of his lips, like he was taking a huge risk telling them this secret. “John, would you be an absolute dear and bring me the carry bag?”

John did as he was asked. Greg glanced at Mycroft, who tilted his head this way and that as he stretched his neck.

“I brought you a house gift.” Moriarty withdrew a thin book and a box with a large silver bow from his suitcase.

“Mr. Simms Sweet Shoppe fudge!” Mycroft gripped the box as if it held precious memories. “I lived on this in University.”

Mrs. Hudson took the box from Mycroft’s hands and frowned.

“Of course, I don’t touch it anymore,” Mycroft said, staring as the box as Mrs. Hudson dropped it on the couch table.

“Were you planning on giving it to the bellhop at the hotel? You know, with your reservation?” Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrow, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Maybe just a nibble for celebration’s sake,” Moriarty smiled and tilted his head toward the fudge.

As Mycroft reached for the box, Mrs. Hudson slapped his fingers away.

“Who’d like to see some pictures of Mycroft from University?” Moriarty waved the book in the air.

“Oh.” Mycroft’s voice dropped as soon as he realized what the book was. “Our Sports Yearbook.”

“Are you in it, Mr. Moriarty?” John asked, his ears having perked up with the word “sports”

“Please call me James,” he smiled kindly at John. “Yes—”

“James was the captain of the varsity football team and the tennis team in our final year.”

“What about you, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his eyes wide with innocence. “Are you in the yearbook?”

“No,” Mycroft said abruptly.

“I don’t think that’s true.” Moriarty smiled as he flipped through the book.

Greg noticed that, although Moriarty’s tone was light and friendly, his words hurt Mycroft. He wanted to say or do something, but maybe it wasn’t his place.

“Ah! Here you are, Mycroft.” Moriarty pointed to the chubby, short man at the center of the Snooker team photo.

“Is that really you, Mycroft?” John asked. He looked from the page, to Mycroft and back to the page. “Wow, you were so—”

“What a tub,” Sherlock said, who’d been too young to remember. “You were huge!”

“I’d forgotten what a little butterball you were,” Moriarty said with glee.

“I think you melted in all the right places.” Greg patted Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft mumbled something and reached into box for a piece of fudge.

“Here I am, the day our football team won their championship.” Moriarty pointed to himself, slender and muscled in his football uniform. “I was named the Most Valuable Player for the tournament.”

Mycroft stuffed another chunk of fudge into his mouth before Mrs. Hudson seized the box.

“A glorious time. Wasn’t it Mycroft?”

Greg watched Mycroft squirm under Moriarty’s words. Why was Mycroft allowing this turd to do this to him?

“Our winter formal was that weekend also. What was the name of that delicious Theology major I met there?”

Mycroft swallowed hard before taking another piece of fudge. “Jonathan Nottidge.”

“Didn’t you have a crush on him, Mycroft? No matter. That Theology major definitely saw God that night.” Moriarty laughed at his own insinuation.

“There are kids here,” Mrs. Hudson said, her simmering anger boiling over. “You two. Kitchen. Snack. Now.”

John grumbled as they marched to the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson following. “We miss all the good stuff.”

“I’ll figure it out, and I’ll let you know.” Sherlock whispered, but didn’t realize how his voice carried. Greg swatted at Sherlock’s behind to move him faster out of the room.

“Is Gregory escorting you tonight?” Moriarty asked, the question heavy with innuendo.

“No!” Mycroft’s cheeks burned. “No, I’d never—”

“Would you allow him to escort me this evening, then? I’m not really familiar with the area…”

“Don’t you have a GPS?” Greg asked, done with this joker’s bullshit.

“No, I mean, yes. Gregory is a grown man,” Mycroft stuttered, confused by Moriarty’s question and the way his eyes roamed Greg’s body. “He’s just my housekeeper. I don’t own him.”

Mycroft’s words slammed into Greg. His nails bit into his palm as he worked to speak calmly. “If my Boss gives me the night off, I’d be happy to escort you.”

“Don’t forget your suit is at the cleaners,” Mycroft snapped, his eyes burning into Greg. “I’m sure they’re open late tonight.”

“I’m sure they are, too.” _Fine, fuck you, Mycroft. If you want me to go, I’ll go and have a goddamn good fucking time_. Greg grabbed the baskets of laundry and turned his back to Mycroft. “I have to put the laundry away.”

“Yes.” Mycroft stomach ached. This had spun out of control and now Greg was being an ass. Well fine. “Yes you do.”

Moriarty leaned back into the corner of the couch and smiled. “I hope I didn’t cause a problem.”

“No. There are no problems.” Mycroft pushed through the kitchen door. “I need something to eat.” Thank God Mrs. Hudson left. It must be like watching an accident in slow motion.

Mycroft ignored John and Sherlock’s questions as he rummaged through the cupboards and the freezer before settling on a gallon of ice cream. “Stupid. Stupid.” He yanked a drawer open, scattering the utensils from their holders. He grabbed a spoon and slammed the drawer shut. He always let Jim crawl under his skin. I thought I’d changed. Mycroft shoved a heaping spoonful of Rocky Road ice cream into his mouth.

~*~

 

“Thanks for agreeing to be my date tonight,” Jim purred, now that Greg was back. “I hope I didn’t cause any problems.”

“No problems. And I’m not your date,” Greg answered. If Mycroft didn’t care if he went with this guy, then he didn’t care either. But he wasn’t his friggin’ date.

James moved closer to Greg, pressing his fingertips lightly against Greg’s chest. “Maybe afterward, you can show me how people here have fun.” His meaning was clear.

“Yeah.” Greg grimaced at Moriarty’s touch. He moved Jim’s hand from his chest and stepped back. “I have no intention of—"

Mycroft heard Greg’s voice and sent the kids into the yard to play. He needed to stop acting like a child and apologize to Greg, tell him that he didn’t want Greg to go with Jim.

Mycroft heard Jim’s voice and opened the door just wide enough to peek through. Moriarty stood inches away from Greg.

“—you can show me how people here have fun.”

“Yeah.”

Mycroft’s cheeks burned. He bit down on his lips as he eased the door closed. And I was going to apologize. Mycroft’s stomach lurched as he inhaled another chunk of Rocky Road and then licked the spoon. Chocolate syrup. That’s what this needed. He’d seen some in the fridge.

After he’d sent Moriarty up the stairs to John’s room, Greg came into the kitchen and grabbed his keys from the counter. Mycroft’s bottom hung out of the refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” It sounded mean. Even to Greg’s ears, it sounded nasty.

Mycroft stood up, bottle of chocolate syrup in one hand and the cake plate in the other. “If you must know, I’m having a mid-afternoon snack.”

“What is with you?” Greg yelled, not caring if Moriarty could hear. “You’ve been an—you’ve been stuffing your mouth ever since your friend got here.”

Mycroft put the cake on the table, almost breaking the plate with the force. “Don’t you have to go pick up your suit? For your date?” He grabbed the ice cream container and the spoon. “I have work to do,” Mycroft said. “I’ll be in my office.” He stormed out of the room.

“ _What the fuck just happened?”_ Greg thought as he threw his arms up.

Mycroft slammed the kitchen door into the side of the cabinet. “I forgot my chocolate syrup.” He grabbed the bottle and stormed out, again.

Greg took the keys to the Range Rover and left.

~*~

 

Mycroft hesitated as he walked down the stairs to the living room. He looked ridiculous. The lines of his tuxedo were all wrong. His bow tie wouldn’t sit right. And the ice cream and fudge made his trousers too tight.

“You look lovely,” Mrs. Hudson said with an ooh-aaaah as she eyed the boys before they could comment. “Very elegant.”

“I feel like a whale.” Mycroft eased himself into his chair, unsure how forgiving the trousers would be.

Moriarty stepped lightly down the stairs. He twirled in a slow circle for his audience. “What do you think?”

“I like your red bow tie, Jim,” John said. Fawning over Jim. Of course, Mycroft thought.

“Burgundy.” Jim corrected John. “Mycroft, you’ll never believe the who called. Jonathan Nottidge. He heard I’d be in for the reception and invited me to his suite for an apéritif.” He air-quoted aperitif, thinking it meant mad sex.

“ _You’re_ interested in a Theology major?” Mycroft was skeptical.

“It seems I got his major wrong. He owns a very large corporation in addition to having a very large—”

Mycroft stopped him. “I’d like to have a word with you in the kitchen please.”

When Moriarty balked, Mycroft held the kitchen door open. “Well, alright," Jim said, "But he’s sending his car here for me.”

James checked his reflection in the window and tidied his tie.

“What about Greg?” Mycroft asked. Sure, he was angry at Greg the Idiot, but he didn’t want him to be hurt.

“Greg? That’s nothing. You explain it to him. You’re good at that.” Jim looked out the kitchen window and saw headlights in the driveway.

“You have to tell him, James.”

“My ride is here. Ta.” Moriarty opened the back door and said, “If all goes well, I won’t see you at the dinner.” He waved behind him and left.

Mycroft mimicked James’ words and dropped his head into his hands. How did this all go so wrong?

“Who left?” Greg asked, carrying his suit in a dry cleaner’s bag over his shoulder.

“Have a seat, Gregory.” Mycroft pushed the chair out with his foot.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Greg stood, waiting for Mycroft to explain.

“Jim, uh, left. It would seem he has a date.”

Greg dropped the suit into the chair. “Wait. I’ve been dumped?”

Mycroft nodded.

“What a creep.” Greg sighed in relief as a slow smile spread across his face.

“Yeah. I see that now.” Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head. “I think I was too young, too inexperienced, to see him for who he was then. Is now.”

They sat in silence, listening to Mrs. Hudson and the boys playing MarioKart in the next room. “You could come with me. If you wanted. Be my, y’know—”

“You’d want me to go with you?” Greg asked, looking at his phone instead of Mycroft. “I wouldn’t be an embarrassment because I’m your housekeeper from Brooklyn?"

Mycroft reached out to brush Greg’s cheek but stopped himself. That would be presumptuous. Instead he covered Greg’s hand with his own for a moment.

“You may not have the same university degree as James Moriarty or the same pedigree as he. However, you are so much more. Will you join me this evening?”

Greg smiled knowing Mycroft wanted him by his side. “You go. It’s your night to shine.” He picked Mycroft’s keys off the table and said, “Show ‘em how great you turned out.” And tossed the keys to the BMW to Mycroft who caught them easily.

“I did turn out okay, didn’t I?” With a smile and a wave, Mycroft left.

~*~

Although they didn’t need Mrs. Hudson as a babysitter, when she heard the day’s events, she sat on the couch and said she wasn’t going anywhere.

“I have an idea,” Greg said, picking at his slice of chocolate cake. “Let’s set fire to Moriarty’s luggage.”

“Now, Greg. That’s ridiculous. We don’t want the house to burn down.” Mrs. Hudson slid her empty cake plate onto the coffee table. “We have to put it on the lawn before we set fire to it.”

Greg jumped up from the couch. “That’s a great idea!” He dragged Moriarty’s luggage down the stairs.

“You can’t actually do it!” Mrs. Hudson gasped.

“No, but I know where his car keys are. I’m going to shove this crap in his car, and leave a note and his keys on the front bench.

Before Greg could open the door, a silver Jaguar pulled up and idled at the curb.

“That snake,” Mrs. Hudson said as she and Greg watched through the front window.

“They’re taking long enough—” Greg said.

“The car door’s opening! Act natural.”

Mrs. Hudson picked up the empty plate and fork, to look busy. When the front door opened, Mycroft called over his shoulder, “Good night, Jonathan. Thank you again for the ride.”

“Who was that, and where is your car?” Greg’s thoughts spun out wildly. And he could smell the alcohol on Mycroft.

“That was Jonathan Nottidge. He gave me a ride.”

Greg’s mouth hung open. Mycroft’s university crush. “Yeah. I’ll bet he gave you a ride.”

“I’m going home,” Mrs. Hudson took the cake plates to the kitchen. “I’m not watching this.”

“Huh?” Mycroft closed one eye and tried to think about that then shook his head. “Seems he doesn’t remember Jim quite as fondly as Jim assumed. And he owns—let’s just say one of his corporations may well be of use to Queen and Country.” Mycroft looked at the stack of luggage. “What are you doing with Jim’s things?”

“I’m putting them in his car. He’s not welcome here.” Greg said it like I dare you to contradict me.

“You are right, Gregory. He doesn’t.” Mycroft collapsed into his wingback chair.

Greg’s anger melted. “I’m sorry for being a jealous idiot. What you and your date did—“

“Date? Who? Jonathan?” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he tried to untie his tie, but couldn’t figure it out. “I told you. He drove me home. I had a few drinks and didn’t feel comfortable driving. And just now we were shoring up a few details for Queen and Country. I promise.” Mycroft crossed his heart, or actually a random spot on his chest.

“Because all minor government officials make deals about Queen and Country,” Greg teased as he untied Mycroft’s tie and pulled it out from under his collar.

Mycroft laughed, his eyes half closed. “I may have understated my position a bit. Good night, Gregory.”

Greg smiled at Mycroft tenderly. “Good night, Boss. I’m glad you had a good time tonight.” He turned out the living room lights, and Mycroft watched him walk up the stairs.

Alone in the darkness, Mycroft allowed himself to revel in the best part of the night, to replay it in his mind.

Gregory was jealous.

Mycroft settled into his chair, the moon striping his trousers. Because now he knew. He sang quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. “I have to tell you just how I feel. I won’t share you with another boy.”


	8. Ticket Stubs & Your Diaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's been busy and secretive and Mycroft can't deduce the reason. In the end, they finally realize, unequivocally, undeniably, they want each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, 221Btls and GeronimoandbeMAGnificent make everything right in the world.
> 
> The title comes from Bastille's song "Things We Lost In the Fire."
> 
> Yes, the Lakewood Blue Claws are a real minor league team in NJ.

“How goes your creative writing class, Mrs. Hudson?” Mycroft hung his wool overcoat on the coat rack next to the kitchen door. “And why are you in my house instead of yours?”

“It’s nicer in here. Warm and cozy.” She turned to Mycroft and smiled before she scraped back her chair from Mycroft’s kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson poured herself a new hit of coffee and offered to pour Mycroft a cup from the nearly empty glass coffee. “I’m happy to share.”

He raised an eyebrow at her cheeky offer. “No thank you. I prefer not to drink others’ coffee. And why isn’t it warm and cozy at your home?”

“Do you have any idea how much heating costs? The price is outrageous.” Mrs. Hudson settled in her chair at Mycroft’s kitchen table and stared at her blank computer screen. “What should I write about?”

“How about a dashing young man who stealthily murders his elderly neighbor for breaking and entering, turning up the thermostat, and worst of all, drinking all of his coffee?”

“Who would believe such a thing of a poor, elderly woman?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice quavered like a cartoon granny.

“Everyone who knows you.” Mycroft laughed and poured the dregs of the coffee into a New York Mets cup. “I used to have china in my cabinets. I know I did.”

“I can’t concentrate with all of your yammering. Stuff your mouth. I made them this morning.” Without looking away from her screen, Mrs. Hudson handed a platter of chocolate chip cookies in Mycroft’s direction.

Mycroft nibbled on a cookie, listening to the silence. Except for Mrs. Hudson’s tap-tap-tapping, which was really quite loud. He could barely remember a time when he lived in this house alone. It had been tidier then, Mycroft thought, as he sat down with an ouch, and rolled onto his right hip to pull a baseball glove out from under his behind. But lonelier.

He had been lonelier. Get up. Commute. Work. Commute. Sleep. Some nights he slept on the couch in his office. Then, his parents left Sherlock with him and Greg and John saved them. Very different from last night, when they all went to the artsy movie theater in town to see the first three Star Wars movies playing back to back.

“It seems they’re movies number four, five and six,” Mycroft read from the IMDB app on his phone.

Greg had scoffed as he handed the boys and Mycroft their own buckets of popcorn and giant sodas. “Enjoy your dinner. And anyone who knows anything will tell you movies 4, 5, and 6” he’d said with air quotes. “Are really, 1, 2, 3, because they came out first.”

Mycroft had never had time for movies or sitting down to dinner. Greg changed that; he expected Mycroft to be there when work allowed. Mycroft found that he wanted to be there when work allowed. Oddly, work allowed more than it ever had.

“Where’re Greg and the kids?” Mycroft asked, checking the time on his phone. “It’s almost 6. Aren’t they usually home by 5?”

As if on cue, Greg opened the backdoor, the plastic grocery sack handles striping both arms.

"Did you remember--" Mycroft leaned to the side to see behind Greg.

Greg dropped the bags on the floor and reached back out the door. "Pumpkins!"

"Kids," Mycroft finished, craning his neck to see beyond Greg.

"Shit! I knew I forgot something." Greg faked a gasp and then rolled his eyes at Mycroft. “They’re bringing in more bags.”

“How did you get Sherlock to agree to help?” Mrs. Hudson asked, not looking up from her keyboard.

“I appealed to his most basic belief: _What’s in it for me_.”

Sherlock carried a brown paper bag dotted with grease marks on the bottom to the table. “Chinese food for dinner. Did you know you can tell a good Chinese by looking the bottom third of the door handle?”

John emptied his plastic bags on the counter. “No you can’t. Don’t be stupid.”

The two boys bickered about Chinese food and door handles as they unpacked the groceries and stacked the cans and boxes in the pantry. Working around Mrs. Hudson’s mess, Greg dealt the Styrofoam food containers to each person’s dinner place, followed by plastic forks and paper napkins.

He checked his battered wrist watch and grimaced. “Shit. I have to go out for a while. I’ll be back late.” Without waiting for any response, Greg rushed out the back door.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, Mycroft stood agape wondering when he’d lost complete control of his life. “Where’s he going?”

“Who cares?” Sherlock said, stuffing another uncut spear of broccoli into his mouth. Mycroft handed him a napkin to wipe the brown sauce dripping down his chin.

“Your dinner is getting cold, dear,” Mrs. Hudson pushed the white Styrofoam container toward Mycroft. She tucked into Greg’s meal and watched Mycroft push the fried rice around with his plastic fork.

~*~

The next afternoon, Greg blew through the back door, ignoring Mrs. Hudson who sat with an empty coffee mug at her right elbow and balled-up notebook pages littering the table. He emptied his pockets onto the counter, a card fluttering to the floor.

“Don’t you have a home?” Greg asked. “I know you do. I replaced the glass in your window.”

“Deadline.” Mrs. Hudson nodded at the paper balls as if that explained anything. “Do you want coffee? Maybe coffee will make these people do what I want them to.” She waved her hand in the direction of the notebook.

“It never works here.” Greg flung open the dishwasher door and haphazardly slotted in the dishes and bowls from breakfast. “You gotta make it though. I have to get this place cleaned up before the kids come home.”

“And Mycroft,” she said pointedly. Greg didn’t respond. She pushed her chair away from the table. Coffee would help. Mrs. Hudson started another pot, and as she turned around, she saw the card that had fallen from Greg’s pocket.

“MachoMaids?” She eyed the man’s bare chest on the card before turning it over. “Cleaned with love by Greg.” Mrs. Hudson gasped, a tentative smile growing as she thought it through.

“Gimme that!” Greg tried to pull the card from Mrs. Hudson’s hands, but she twirled away from him.

“Call MachoMaids! We clean and look good doing it!” She giggled and waved the card, knowing Greg wouldn’t grab it out of fear of hurting her. “Is this why you’ve been running around like a chicken—”

“We are home,” Mycroft called as the front door closed. “I picked up the boys from chess club.”

Greg yanked the card away and stuffed the card into his pocket. “Yes. Now drop it,” he said, his words cold and cropped.

Mrs. Hudson let the discussion drop. For a moment. She poured a mug of coffee and, with Greg’s back to her as he filled the dishwasher, she left her coffee next to her notebook and slipped into the living room.

“Mrs. Hudson. To what do we owe this unexpected visit?” Mycroft smiled as he hung his coat on the rack.

Mrs. Hudson marched to his side and blocked Mycroft’s path, her eyes blazing. “You miser!”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft pasted on a confused, fake smile and blinked as he worked through all the possible answers.

“It’s almost Christmas, and you don’t pay Greg enough, and he had to get a part time job to buy presents for John.” Mrs. Hudson’s fingers curled into fists at her side. It was quite possible she’d slug this smug bastard for screwing up.

Mycroft sidestepped Mrs. Hudson as she demanded, “What are you going to do?”

“I shall ask him.” Mycroft strode into the kitchen and waited a moment, watching Greg working at the sink. The line of his strong back, the muscles that tensed and flexed as he moved the plates and pans into the dishwasher.

He’d almost gotten the nerve to ask Greg out; thank God, the baseball team interrupted before he’d made a total ass of himself. He was pretty sure, kind of, maybe that Greg might say yes, but y’know, he was the best housekeeper Mycroft had ever had, and he liked Sherlock, and maybe leaving things the way they are would be better…

“Brokering world peace?” Greg teased as he wiped his hands on his thighs to dry them. “You were super deep in thought.”

Thighs.

Mycroft swallowed hard as he pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Mrs. Hudson is ready to beat me because she says I do not pay you a living wage.” He kept it light-hearted, because he knew that the woman was a bit dotty and had gotten this wrong.

Greg’s face fell. “I didn’t think I had to tell her to keep her mouth shut.” He busied himself preheating the oven and rifling through the refrigerator for salad ingredients. As Mycroft touched Greg’s arm, he turned around and almost wound up in Mycroft’s arms. Flustered by the heat of Mycroft’s touch, Greg almost threw the head of lettuce and packages of celery and carrots at him.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Mycroft said as he shifted the lettuce and celery to the countertop. “If you need more money—”

Greg dumped the rest of the salad fixings on the table next to the bowl and knife and began ripping the lettuce and dropping it into the bowl. “No. Yes. I mean—I’m just a little late on the rent.”

Mostly to keep the knife away from Greg, Mycroft picked up the pepper and sliced it into strips as Greg searched for the right words.

“Look.” Greg tore the lettuce viciously. “My pop died last month, and I gotta pay the rent or I’ll lose the apartment.”

Mycroft put the knife on the table and looked into Greg’s eyes. “I’m so very sorry. John never said anything.”

Greg waved off Mycroft’s sympathy. “John doesn’t know. Pop walked out when I was his age, and never contacted any of us again. I got a call as next of kin; that’s the only reason I know.”

Mycroft nodded with understanding, not understanding one bit. “So you want to keep the apartment in his memory?”

“Ugh, no.” Greg washed off the tomato and brought it back to the table with the cutting board. “He was a bastard. I remember that part clearly. But—” He hesitated, keeping his gaze down on the table. “It’s an apartment in the city, and I was gonna keep it because, what if—what if this doesn’t work out?”

Mycroft tilted his head and watched Greg’s face. “I see. For what it is worth to your decision, I think this is working out very well. Very well indeed.”

“Yeah.” Greg smiled in response. “Really well.”

“I completely understand if you feel you need to retain the apartment.” Mycroft stole a wedge of tomato from the cutting board, almost getting his fingers tapped with Greg’s knife.

Greg caught Mycroft’s gaze. “No, I think this will wind up being—good.” He saw something soften in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Are we having salad with dinner _again_?” Mrs. Hudson groaned, interrupting their moment.

“Go home, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said, as he finally broke away from Greg’s gaze. “Take your tawdry novel home.”

Mrs. Hudson huffed as she gathered her notebook and pens out from underneath the greens. “It’s not tawdry. It’s a prophetic novel of two star-crossed lovers, too stupid to see what’s right under their noses.” For good measure, she dumped her cooling coffee into the sink and poured a new cup before she left. With their mug.

“She hasn’t been the same since she started that online writing course,” Mycroft said as he watched her leave.

Over dinner, Greg casually mentioned that his father had passed away. John asked a thousand questions about the grandfather he never knew. Mycroft listened carefully to the things Greg said and the details he omitted.

“I guess I should clean it out before the rent is due on the 31st.” Greg scraped the plates as the boys cleared the table. He poured the remaining coffee for Mycroft, who sat at the breakfast bar answering emails on his phone.

Mycroft looked up mid-sentence. “Would you like help? It can be easier for a person who is not emotionally entangled…”

“Nah. I don’t have any emotional entanglements.” Greg handed Mycroft the New York Giants Super Bowl XLVI mug, allowing his fingers to linger on Mycroft’s. “Not about him.”

Unsure what would spill out of his mouth if he tried to speak, how his brain would betray him, Mycroft remained silent. Greg pulled a bottle of Coke from the refrigerator and poured himself a drink as Mycroft returned to his emails.

He waited for Greg to take a swig and said, “Will you quit MachoMaids, then?”

Greg spewed his soda across the kitchen floor. “I will get even with that woman. I will hunt her down.”

“Blame me.” Mycroft smiled as the flush rose up Greg’s neck. “She swore me to secrecy. I thought it sounded intriguing. So, you clean shirtless?”

As Mycroft laughed, Greg swore loud enough that the boys taunted him from the other room.

~*~

The white-haired building manager keyed open the door locks. Based on the man’s frail frame and trembling hands, Greg doubted he would make it to the 5th floor apartment. But the manager took the stairs two at a time and arrived well before Greg without being winded.

“Sorry for your loss,” the man said as he pocketed his keys. “Mr. Lestrade was a good man. A nice man. He talked about you and your sister Ashley all the time.” He reminded Greg to return the key when he was finished cleaning and left Greg confused by the description of his father.

Greg pushed the door open with his backside as he gathered the cleaning supplies he’d brought with him. The apartment was tidy, not even an empty beer can or pushed-aside newspaper. The furniture was threadbare but well cared for; he heard the refrigerator cycle on, and knew it would be filled with beer and nothing else.

Then he saw the wall over his father’s desk.

Year after year, his father had pinned up clippings from Greg’s baseball career. High school games from the Staten Island newspaper. Minor league games from New Jersey. Faded color photographs of him in his Lakewood Blue Claws uniform the year before he injured his back. Ticket stubs from games he never knew his father had seen.

On the desk was Greg’s _Most Valuable Player_ trophy for the 2002 season when he was 11; it was the last game his dad saw him play. He remembered standing at home plate with the trophy and his dad standing next to him, sober for the moment. Someone had snapped a flash and blinded Greg. He didn’t mind so much because he had a picture of them together. But when his Pop left that last time, Greg tore the picture to shreds. When they moved from Staten Island to Brooklyn, he thought he’d lost the trophy. Now he knew where it was.

Tucked behind the trophy was the picture taken that day, clipped from the Staten Island Advance. Written in his dad’s once familiar printing was the date. The last time his dad saw him play.

“Holy fuck. Where do I even start?” Greg asked the empty apartment. Just start, he thought.

Greg wandered the apartment trying to process all of it. When he’d decided to undertake this, he was steeled for a shit-hole, a hoarding nightmare. The apartment of someone who could cobble together enough sober hours to hold down a job but nothing else. Greg never expected to deal with emotional clutter.

In the spare bedroom with the white bedspread and pink pillows, the bureau held dozens of framed photos of Ashley. Almost like he thought this would one day be her room.

“Shit.” His world was spinning out of his control and he couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t breathe, needed to breathe. Greg stumbled to his father’s room and collapsed on his unmade bed until he could slow everything down. He squeezed his eyelids closed against the tears that threatened to embarrass him.

“Greg?”

 _Fuck. What was Mycroft doing here._ Greg scrubbed his eyes and sat up, forcing his body to breathe. “Back here.”

Mycroft stood in the bedroom doorway.

What a day of fucking shocks, Greg thought as he stared at Mycroft, outfitted in black skinny jeans, low-top Converse sneakers and a worn Mets t-shirt. Greg stared at Mycroft. Because… skinny jeans.

His brain shorted when he recognized the Mets shirt. His Mets shirt.

“I assumed that play clothes would be more appropriate if I were going to help you move.” Mycroft stood uncomfortable under Greg’s stare. Needing to do something, he pushed the shirt further into his waistband.

“That’s my shirt.”

Mycroft rushed his explanation. “None of the stores had Mets shirts, and a vintage one was almost $100, and I thought that seemed excessive, and I didn’t think you would mind if I borrowed one, but I will be most happy to replace it if you know of a store where I could purchase one and…”

“It’s all good. Yeah. It’s…” Greg looked at how the shirt hung short on Mycroft’s lanky frame, barely remaining tucked in, and felt heat pooling at the base of his spine. “…Good.”

“I know you don’t need my assistance, but I thought, perhaps, I could help in some way.” Mycroft drifted toward the bedside table, examining the lopsided ceramic bowl that held bright-colored poker chips.

“Gregory.” Mycroft handed him tokens imprinted with the Alcoholics Anonymous symbol on one side and on the other, _24 hours. 30 days. 90 days. 5 years_. “It appears that your father sought help with his addiction.”

Greg picked up the token sitting atop a newspaper clipping. _12 years_. “He must have started right after he left us.” Greg slumped down onto the bed.

Mycroft held the clipping. “It’s your sister’s obituary.” Greg nodded, unwilling to speak.

Slowly, tentatively, Mycroft reached out to rub Greg’s shoulder. “This must be difficult for you.” He held his breath, waiting for Greg to pull away or ask him to move his hand. Instead, he relaxed into Mycroft’s touch.

“I—I just didn’t know. He left us. It was like he disappeared. He never called. Never even sent us a card on our birthdays.” Greg’s head hung as he spoke.

Mycroft sat on the bed next to Greg, wanting to take his hand. “Would you allow me to take charge?” Greg nodded. “You were prepared for a different reality today.” Greg nodded again. “I know a business that will—tend to the flat. We could fill a few boxes with whatever you would like to keep, and then I will place the call. May I do that for you?”

He felt Greg’s body tense in debate: the ease of having someone else deal with emptying the apartment versus the financial cost of being lazy. Eventually, Mycroft felt the tension release as Greg’s shoulders went slack.

“Yeah. That would be—Thank you.”

Mycroft smiled and pulled his phone out of his back pocket, texting immediately.

“Wait. How do you know someone who—never mind. I don’t want to know. I’m just grateful you do.” Greg pushed himself up off the bed and straightened his shoulders. “Enough of this. Let’s just start.”

They worked together, starting in his father’s bedroom. Greg sorted through the items, occasionally handing something to Mycroft, who would pack it into a box and then tape the full cartons closed. As they worked, Greg described his childhood.

Mycroft listened without speaking. Each story was a piece of Greg’s history; each experience created the man who stood before Mycroft today. The good. The bad. The horrible.

Mycroft locked the sobriety tokens into a zipped plastic bag to keep them safe. He wrapped newspaper around each framed photo of Ashley and packed them with care. In the living room, Greg sat at the desk sorting through documents for anything that would help him as the executor. Mycroft unpinned each newspaper clipping from the wall and tucked them into a file folder he found.

“Oh my God.” Greg’s voice cracked as he pulled a stack of envelopes from the desk drawer. Ten envelopes held together with a rubber band.

Greg’s hands shook as he looked at them. Each addressed to Greg Lestrade. Postmarked June 2002. June 2003. June 2004. The week before his birthday every year until he turned 21. Each had been mailed to his mother’s house and scrawled across each was **return to sender** in his mother’s chicken-scratch writing.

Willing himself not to cry in front of Mycroft, Greg bit down on his lips until he was afraid of drawing blood. When he found another stack addressed to Ashley Lestrade, his self-control collapsed. Tears streaked his face and fell onto the envelope in his hand. His stomach heaved, and he prayed that he wouldn’t puke, not here, not in this spotless apartment.

“Shhhh. Shhhh. It’s alright. It’s—it’s alright.”

Mycroft knelt and gently took the envelopes from Greg’s hand. “You couldn’t have known, Gregory,” he said, wrapping his arms around Greg, who buried his face against Mycroft’s neck as he cried. “You couldn’t have known he’d changed.”

Greg couldn’t speak; thoughts and memories tumbled in his mind, bits and pieces that made sense now. Mycroft held him tight until the tears subsided. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew one of his linen handkerchief and blotted Greg’s face.

“When I ironed these, I thought they were for show.” Greg’s small laugh was thick with grief. “What is it with you Holmes men making me iron things.” He rested head on Mycroft’s shoulder until his breathing evened and his tears subsided.

Mycroft handed him the dampened handkerchief for his nose and stood up before he did something stupid like moving his face closer to Greg’s and kissing him. He cleared his throat and suggested that Greg rinse his face in the bathroom. Without argument, Greg followed Mycroft’s suggestion.

While Greg was in the loo, Mycroft swept the minimal contents of the desk into the box that held the yellowed, faded newspaper clippings. He packed away Greg’s MVP trophy and added the newspaper photo to the box.

“Let’s leave everything else for the cleaners.” Mycroft taped the box of papers shut and wrote **Desk** on the box in black marker. Greg nodded, happy to have someone else make the decision. Mycroft put the box atop the other few they’d be taking with them. “Are you finished with the flat?”

“Yes. Let's go home.” Greg hesitated for a moment. “When we moved to Connecticut, everything was so quiet and clean and alien to me. All I wanted was to come back to Brooklyn. Now, I just want to go home. You took us in and welcomed us when we needed it the most. Two lost boys.”

Mycroft searched Greg's face for anything he could deduce. Evidence of recent crying. Pizza for lunch. Excessive Worrying. And something else Mycroft couldn't identify, something soft and new. "It was Sherlock and I who were adrift. You knew immediately how to handle Sherlock and the snake he kept to torment me. You are the most important member of our—” Mycroft wanted to stop the spinning in his stomach, wanted to know, couldn't dare ask, finally said “—family.”

They stood less than an arm's length away. Greg watched Mycroft swallow, the taut muscles in his neck, the ridge of his Adam’s apple. He saw the fear in the tiny tells—Mycroft looked everywhere except Greg’s face. He bit the corner of his lip. He'd jammed his hands deep into the pocket of those jeans that clung to his thighs. Irene Adler was absolutely right: he could climb Mycroft like a tree.

_Just start._

“Thanks for coming today.” Greg stepped toward Mycroft. “I’m glad you were here.”

“I’m reliably informed that is what friends do.” Mycroft bit the corner of his lip and finally met Greg’s eyes. “I’ve never had a close friend before…you.”

Mycroft.

Vulnerable. Honest. Open.

Lessons his mother tried to teach Greg slammed home. Here, in his dead father’s apartment, still mourning the loss of his sister. _Life is so short. Take happiness where you find it. When Fate hands you a gift, say thank you._

Greg brought his palm to Mycroft’s cheek and waited a moment, two moments, three. Mycroft’s eyes closed as he tilted his head into the touch, brushing against it almost purring.

Slowly, Greg’s thumb traced Mycroft’s top lip, his soft ginger whiskers tickling Greg’s skin. He hadn’t shaved his morning which means he hadn’t gone to work. He’d taken a rare day off only to help Greg. This man. This treasure. This gift.

“Thank you.”

“You’re wel—” Mycroft began before Greg cut him off.

_Just start._

Greg stepped close enough he could smell the citrus scent of Mycroft’s soap, see the small smile-wrinkles forming at the corner of his eyes.

Close enough to breathe the same breaths.

Close enough that Greg’s nose skimmed the freckles that dusted Mycroft’s cheeks.

Close enough that Greg’s lips slipped across Mycroft’s. “Okay?”

The small puff of air on his face is the most erotic thing Mycroft had ever experienced.

He cupped Greg’s face, his only answer the return, and return, and return of kisses.


	9. Imagine Me & You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks since they first kissed. Greg and Mycroft can't get even a few minutes of privacy from the boys and Mrs. Hudson. This is SmAngUff. Smut, then Angst, then Fluff. Super Sweet Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Trigger Warning: Panic, Mugging
> 
> I apologize to those who prefer no angt, BUT. There's smut AND fluff. and Ooey-Gooey love. 
> 
> Yes, the NYP-Weill Cornell Medical Center in NYC has suites just like I've described. The Greenberg Pavilion. I left out the private chef.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of quick kisses stolen in the mornings before Greg dropped Mycroft at the train station. More than once Mycroft almost missed his train.

Three weeks of jumping apart, hastily straightening rucked-up shirts and tented trousers when someone would barge into the kitchen, taking too long to decide on a snack or what to drink. They both noticed it was more likely to be Mrs. Hudson than John and Sherlock, although they were also unwitting perpetrators of the cockblock.

 

          _I just want to fuckin kiss you without being interrupted. Is that too much to ask?_

 

Mycroft grinned. A big grin. A big, sappy grin. If he had to work until almost midnight, at least he had Greg’s texts to amuse him.

            _ **Not too much to ask at all. B===D**_

            _Mycroft Holmes! Did u just send me a dick?_

        _Also, there weren’t enough === signs. ROFLMAO_

          _**For you or me?**_

      _For you. Remember I’ve seen it. here’s a pic of me    B====================D_

Mycroft cackled as he walked down nearly-deserted Lexington Avenue toward Grand Central Terminal. He picked up the pace to make the 12:07am train to Fairfield; if he missed it, he’d have to wait an hour for the next one. Tonight he was cutting it close, but walking was smarter than waiting for a taxi. He knew from experience he could hoof it faster than the taxi could get there, even at this time of night. And the Consulate’s car service was hit or miss.

He plugged one earbud in so he could still hear ambient noise, adjusted his satchel strap on his shoulder, and picked up the pace. The cold November wind whipped between the buildings, and Mycroft pulled his overcoat closed around his throat, regretting that he’d forgotten his scarf.

~*~

 

        _Did you say your parents are coming at Christmas? Can we shove the kids off on them and fuck the entire break?_

 

Greg pushed send and dropped his phone onto the couch. Why did he say things like that when he was already so fucking hard? Like it wasn’t bad enough before they first kissed, but now that he could touch Mycroft, he wanted to untie the Cambridge University silk tie. Slip the buttons through the holes of the soft linen shirt. Inhale the citrus-cinnamon scent of his soap on his chest.

He slid his hand into the waistband of his flannel pajama pants and let it linger on his cock. The warmth of his hand¬—he could almost imagine it was Mycroft’s. Greg thought about calling him and asking him to describe in detail what they would do when they finally had privacy. He moaned slow and deep. No, that would be bad. Did he even dare to jerk off? It wouldn’t take long. Jesus, he hadn’t shot this fast this often since high school. Greg looked over his shoulder. No noise from the boys’ rooms and Mrs. Hudson should be tucked into her own bed.

Greg flicked his wrist, sliding his fist over the damp crown. Yessssss, he hissed. His left hand searched for the scarf that Mycroft had forgotten this morning. Greg’s fingers found the cashmere and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Awwwwfuck, it went right to his cock like an electric pulse. His hips moved faster, imagining Mycroft over him. That it was _his_ hand dragging up and down, twisting. _His_ fingers pinching Greg's hard nipple, rolling it just the right side of too much. He moaned, dragging the sound out as his balls tightened. He pulled the scarf back up to his face and inhaled again, thinking about himself buried balls-deep inside Mycroft, and he’s lost. He bit down on the scarf with a growl as he came.

He rested his head on the back of the couch as he recovered, his breathing eventually slowing. Greg thought for a moment about wiping his hand on the scarf and watching Mycroft’s face slowly change from angry to aroused. As the endorphins subsided, he smiled and knew that Mycroft would really just be pissed off. He wiped his cooling semen on the hem of his t-shirt and closed his eyes again.

The phone's ringtone jangled Greg awake. Sluggish and slow from sleep, he pawed the couch trying to find the phone before the piercing ringing woke the boys.

Squinting, Greg read the display. _212 number? Who the fuck?_ he thought. “Yeah. Hello?”

“Mr. Lestrade? This is¬—”

Greg jumped off the couch, now fully awake. Something bad. Something wrong. The boys. He had to find the boys. Greg took the stairs two at a time, stumbling as his foot caught on the lip of a step. His body wasn’t working right, heart moving too fast, brain too slow.

“Anthea--¬”

Check Sherlock’s room. A lump with dark curls. Asleep. Good.

His stomach twisted as he flung open John’s door.

“From New York Presbyterian--¬”

John. Asleep. Good. The boys were where they should be. They were ok. He felt a brief burst of relief until he realized… If it’s not the boys…Mycroft… _Fuck propriety_. He threw Mycroft's door open.

“¬Weill Cornell Medical Center. Mr. Holmes has listed you as his emergency contact."

Mycroft's bed was just as Greg left it this morning when he’d changed the sheets. He didn't even need to check that the note he’d written was still tucked under Mycroft's pillow.

He needed to focus on what this lady was saying, but the buzzing in his ears made it hard to hear; she was so far away. “Wait a sec. Wait.” He rifled through the bedside table drawer for a pen and something to write on. He grabbed an envelope and filed away the box of condoms and the near empty bottle of lube to think about later. “Please start again.”

“I'm calling from NYP/Weill Cornell Medical Center in New York City. Mycroft Holmes has listed you as his emergency contact.”

“Is he all right?” Greg's heart froze as he waited for the reply.

“All I can say is that he is in critical condition and has been taken to the OR. If you—”

Greg hung up on her. He had to get to the hospital. Now. Wait. Clothes. His jeans were on the bedroom floor where he left them, right on top of his shoes. He dressed as fast as he could, but his fingers fumbled with the zipper and button. He jammed his feet into the sneakers, crushing the back with his heel. He thought about waking the boys, but it made no sense since he didn’t know anything.

Greg hopped the short fence to Mrs. Hudson’s yard. No way he would leave the boys alone under the best of circumstances. But with no idea how long he would be at the hospital, he’d need her help. Now.

He yelled and banged on her kitchen door, shaking it so forcefully the glass panes rattled. A figure appeared in the dark kitchen. When the kitchen lights turned on, Greg saw not Mrs. Hudson, but Mrs. Turner’s son Billy, barely out of his teens and definitely out of his clothes, dressed in Mrs. Hudson’s pink chenille bathrobe. “Hang on. Jesus, gimme a second.”

Billy opened the back door just in time for Greg to hear Mrs. Hudson growl, “Billy, I don’t care who’s here or why. Get rid of them and come back to bed.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I need you.” Greg pushed past Billy to get into the kitchen. “Something happened to Mycroft and he’s in the hospital in New York, and I have to go and I can’t leave the boys because I don’t know what’s wrong and why he’s there and how long he’ll be there and I…” The only reason Greg ended his sentence was because he ran out of breath. “I’ve gotta go.”

Fully dressed as if it were the middle of the day, Mrs. Hudson came up behind Greg and hugged him, pinning his arms to his sides. He needed to go, get on the road, and she wouldn’t let him go.

She held him tight, feeling him flex his hands against her legs. “I’ll let you leave when you’re calm. But you can’t drive like this. You’ll wind up in an accident.” She spoke in a quiet, firm voice telling him the boys needed him alive and that Mycroft needed him alive.

Gradually, the flexing stopped and Greg’s breathing slowed. He nodded; his heart still pounded, but she was right.

Mrs. Hudson released him. “Mycroft gave me someone’s business card a while back. He said to call if something ever happened. You go, and I’ll call them when I get to your house.” She took Greg’s face in her hands so he would look at her and listen with his eyes. “Be careful. I refuse to be legal guardian to those two hoodlums you’re raising.”

Greg smiled weakly and as he was leaving her house, he heard her give Billy the bad news. “Sorry, honey. We’re not going to be able to finish tonight.” He didn’t stick around long enough to hear any more.

~*~

Greg sat on the edge of the vinyl loveseat in the waiting room, bouncing his leg. In time to the music. Against the beat of the music. Bouncing. The woman sitting next to him glared side-eyed, decided standing in the crowded room was preferable than being jiggled to death, and got up.

He stared at the phone on the unattended desk. At the room filled with people waiting for information.

Someone from the OR would call that phone when there was news.

He waited and watched the phone. The people. The floor. The phone.

When it rang, he vaulted out of the chair and answered it before anyone got to it.

“Hello?” Greg’s voice rose in anticipation. He had no idea what happened. Where it happened. What’s going on. Why Mycroft was in the OR. If he’d live.

“Looking for the wife of Carlos Garcia.”

Greg’s shoulders slumped. He placed the phone on the desk and asked the room for Mrs. Carlos Garcia. A bony woman with a tear-streaked face dragged herself to the phone.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Mrs. Hudson checking in. No news, he texted back. His seat was gone.

3am. He felt wired, frazzled and exhausted at the same time. As he paced the hallway outside the room, he made a mental list of all the things that could be wrong. Tripped and broke something. Hit by a taxi. Pushed into the path of an oncoming train. Heart attack. _This wasn’t helping._

The phone rang. _DeNapoli Family?_

He gave up on pacing.

If possible, the waiting room was more crowded than before. He stood near the coffee pot, Styrofoam cup full of black mud and grounds. No amount of sugar would make this taste—drinkable. With no place to dump it out, Greg drank it, awful sip by awful sip.

The phone rang. _Hernandez?_

A seat opened up, hard plastic and unforgiving on his tailbone. He sat straight, and slid inexorably into a sprawl. He closed his eyes and pretended to rest, while his mind calculated the odds of Sherlock testing a poison in John’s breakfast. Mrs. Hudson beating the boys. No. no—wipe Mrs. Hudson from his mind. He was not going to think about her and Billy. That’s fuckin’ nasty. It was like thinking about your parents having sex and…

The phone rang. _Holmes?_

Greg’s stomach lurched as he launched himself out of his seat and snatched the phone from the old man’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he apologized when saw the man’s scowl. “Yes. Hello. This is Greg Lestrade.”

“Mr. Holmes is in recovery. He did well in surgery, and he’s resting now. We’ll send someone for you once he’s awake.”

Mycroft was ok.

Greg knew that the person was ready to disconnect. “Wait. Please. I don’t even know what happened.” His voice shook, and he ground his fist down into the pocket of his jeans. “Please.”

He heard her sigh. “I will be out in a few minutes to explain.”

Greg couldn’t contain his smile. As relief radiated through his body, he felt some of the tension release. He dropped into an empty chair and leaned his head against the wall. He focused on the sheer comfort of knowing Mycroft would be alright.

3:45am. Even though he knew Mrs. Hudson was awake, he didn’t want to call. He texted,

          _He’s out of surgery and doing well. Once I’ve seen him, I’ll let you know._

Greg hit send and with a second thought, sent her a text of hugs and kisses.

_A few minutes_ turned into almost 30. Greg considered another cup of coffee but his stomach was revolting against the first cup. He picked up a  Sports Illustrated, but when he realized it was two years old, he flung it back onto the table and slid down in the chair to rest his eyes until the lady came for him.

A young woman in scrubs stood in the doorway with a piece of paper in her hand. She looked down and called “Holmes.” Greg pulled out of his half-sleep to answer, clearing his throat.

“Dr. Maria DiSanto. I’m an orthopedic surgery resident.” She stuck her hand out and Greg stared at it, dull from his sleep. She pulled it back before he could recover. “Mr. Holmes is awake,” she said. “Walk with me.”

She moved much faster than he’d thought her tiny legs could go. Greg rushed to keep up, catching her as she swiped her badge against the security reader to open the heavy double doors.

“Mr. Holmes was shot in his left shoulder.” With another swipe of her badge, they emerged in front of the cafeteria. “You look like hell. You could use a shot of something, but in this case it has to be caffeine.” Dr. DiSanto talked faster than she walked. She grabbed an extra-large cup and waited as the coffee poured out of the urn’s spigot, moving too slowly for her.

She turned to Greg, who’d filled his cup with hot water and grabbed an Earl Grey Tea foil packet. “Do you mind if we walk and talk? It’s not confidential, but we can kill two birds with one stone.” She saluted him with the coffee. “Cheers.”

With another swish of her badge, she paid for their drinks. “It’s magic, I know. Bad on the paycheck, though.” She led him back through the doors, walking fractionally slower because of the hot coffee.

Greg rolled with the chatter, the power walking, the harsh-bright hallways in the middle of the night. He couldn’t out-energy her, so he decided to let it wash over him like a tidal wave.

“As I said, Mr. Holmes was shot through the shoulder at close range. The wound was through and through, so we didn’t have a bullet to retrieve. He was extremely lucky it only pierced his subclavian artery—”

Greg stopped short. He’d overfilled his cup and the scalding water sloshed over the lid’s small sip-hole. “Lucky?” His chest tightened from Shot. Bullet. Lucky.

“Keep walking,” Dr. DiSanto reminded him. “Lucky because it missed his joint and the Brachial Plexus, which would have done serious nerve damage. The surgery revealed no additional issues. We stopped the bleeding and cleaned it.”

She’d led him through the warren of hallways until they were standing in Recovery in front of a curtained-off bed. “Your partner’s going to look bad, so be ready. Tubes. Wires. Okay?” Greg nodded.

The metal curtain rings jangled in the ceiling channel as the doctor jerked the drape open.

She was right.

Mycroft looked like shit.

Too pale.

The head of the bed was elevated almost upright. The white sheets. The once-white blankets. He looked as washed out as the linens.

As washed out as the white bandages on his shoulder.

His poor Mycroft.

Dr. DiSanto pushed buttons on the monitor and watched, happy with what she saw. “He’s doing really well, post op. Hit all of the milestones we need him to. He’s floating in and out of sleep.” She smiled at Greg. “He’s coming out of the anesthesia, so he’s not going to make much sense, but he can hear you. Sit here and talk to him. He’d love to hear you, I’m sure.”

She dragged a chair over to the right side of the bed and waited for Greg to sit. “You ok?”

Greg nodded as he crashed onto the chair. Too many questions churned. His head throbbed as he tried to sort through them, find one to ask.

“Look, your partner is gonna be in a lot of pain for a long time, but he’s gonna be ok.” The doctor patted his shoulder. “Get some rest. He’s not going anywhere.” She pulled the drape closed behind her, leaving Greg alone with the beeps and blips of the machines.

He threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s and brought them to his lips and kissed each one on the tips. Mycroft wouldn’t normally allow him to; it tickled, he’d said.

“You know you’re not supposed to do that.” Mycroft’s voice sounded raspy. Greg smiled, the first sense of actual relief at Mycroft’s words. “President Putin, take your hand off of mine.”

Greg snorted trying to hold back the laughter that bubbled up. He might as well have some fun at the expense of Mycroft’s delirium. “Mr. Holmes, vhere vould you prefer I put my hand?” He hoped Mycroft was stoned enough he would be fooled by the atrocious accent.

“Not in front of the Queen, Sir.” Mycroft reached with his left hand, but his shoulder wouldn’t respond. “Additionally, I am spoken for.”

“Is she a beautiful babushka?”

Mycroft sighed in his half-sleep. “Very. Big breasts and well-curved hips.”

Greg gasped at this piece of news. He tried to draw his hand back, but Mycroft held tighter.

“Got you.” Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered open. “It’s not nice to tease a dying man.”

“You idiot.” Greg kissed the back of Mycroft’s hand. “You’re not dying. Don’t be a drama queen.”

“What does a man have to do to get respect?” Mycroft’s head fell back to his pillow, his face white with a sheen of sweat.

Greg brought Mycroft’s hand to his cheek, and his voice cracked. “What happened?”

“Mugged. Never saw the gun.” Mycroft mumbled something about super-secret spy school and fell asleep.

Greg watched his chest ease up and down, soothed by its rhythm. He texted Mrs. Hudson and worked through the thoughts that were finally slowing down.

~*~

 

By mid-morning, Mycroft had been relocated to a queen-sized bed in one of the hospital’s plush, private suites. Exhausted by the movement and pain, he fell back asleep once he was resettled. Greg stood at the large windows overlooking the Hudson River, staying out of the way as the techs reset the wires and monitors. The sun warmed him in the chill of the room. He rubbed his crossed arms and said a prayer of thanks that Mycroft was well.

“Sir, the staff will need time to complete Mr. Holmes’ transfer. and they ask that family and friends allow them that time. May I acquaint you with our amenities?” The concierge took him by the elbow and led him out of the room. She showed Greg the private dining room and the rooms set aside for business meetings. When they arrived back at Mycroft’s suite, the concierge handed Greg a pair of clean scrubs and showed him to the oversized, marble bathroom. He thanked her; a long, hot shower might make him feel human and possibly awake.

Greg stood under the adjustable shower and let the water pulse against his back, sore from all the crap seating. The soap and shampoo smelled flowery-fancy, not antiseptic like he'd expect. Nothing at this hospital was what he would have expected. Most hotels he'd stayed at weren't as nice. The towels were thick and plush of course, and he changed into the scrubs. When he reentered Mycroft's bedroom, everyone had gone, moved on to the next patient’s room.

Greg watched as Mycroft slept. He brushed Mycroft's fine soft hair off of his forehead and his breath hitched. Tears prickled his eyelids, and he squeezed them closed to try to hold off them off.

"Is my MachoMaid doing all right?" Mycroft's voice sounded low and raspy, scraped sore.

"You're an ass." Greg wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Quivering, his stupid voice betrayed his cool. “You could have been killed. Why didn't you just give up your stuff?"

Mycroft reached for Greg's hand. "I could not allow him to take my satchel."

"Did you fight?"

Mycroft tried to laugh and winced at the pain. "It's _spy_ school. Not _Superman_ school. I can't catch a bullet with my bare hand."

Greg perched on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle Mycroft. “You should’ve given up the briefcase.”

Mycroft took his head. "Can't. State secrets. And that's where I keep the notes you leave under my pillow."

The tears Greg had kept dammed up spilled down his cheeks. “You could have died. I—I can’t—” He turned away from Mycroft, but that didn’t stop him from hearing Greg’s ragged breathing.

“Come here.”

Greg wiped his face and then crawled into the bed. He carefully rested his head on Mycroft’s good shoulder. Sighing, he felt—like he was supposed to be here.

“At the risk of sounding like a dreadful bodice-ripper romance,” Mycroft cringed and shivered, “I can’t die. Not when we’ve just begun.”

“Ohhhh,” Greg groaned and then giggled. “That was bad. You should be ashamed.”

Mycroft laughed but then flinched in pain. His heart rate shot up and the monitor’s alarm pierced the quiet. Within seconds, a nurse was in the room assessing his condition even before she arrived at Mycroft’s bedside.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be in the bed.” Greg began the process of disentangling himself from Mycroft, but the nurse stopped him.

“Before the alarms went off, his numbers were great, and I’m guessing it’s because you were next to him. Stay.” She held the cup of water and the bendy straw for Mycroft to take a sip. “Are you sure you won’t take some pain medicine, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am quite certain,” Mycroft responded, his eyes closed. He breathed in through his nose and huffed the breaths out through his mouth. She clucked in disagreement, and after making him take another sip of water, she left.

Greg opened his mouth to argue, but Mycroft stopped him. “With my position at the consulate, I cannot afford to be compromised in any way.” Paler than before, Mycroft reclined the bed. “If I rest, I shall feel better.”

When Greg sat up to leave, Mycroft stopped him. “Please stay. I like having you next to me.” He wrapped his arm around Greg’s shoulder. “Besides, the nurse said my numbers are better when you lie with me. And who are we to argue.”

His face tucked into Mycroft’s neck, Greg breathed in and nodded. This was so much better than the scarf.

Mycroft turned just enough to kiss Greg’s forehead. He almost spoke, but decided against it. Instead, he just allowed the emotions to wash over him. Fear. Relief. Happiness. Peace. Love. He drifted off, thinking about how lucky he was to be alive and to be with Greg.

Greg rested his arm across Mycroft’s stomach and kissed his good shoulder. “Good night, Boss.” He brushed his lips across Mycroft’s skin again and whispered, “I love you.”

Mycroft’s heart skipped one beat. Maybe two. He nodded. He didn’t know about Greg, but in his entire life, he’d never said those words to another person who wasn’t his parents. When he said them, he’d mean it.

“I love you too, MachoMaid.”

Together they fell asleep, each too exhausted to realize the magnitude of what they’d confessed.

~*~

 

"Uh, why is Uncle Greg in bed with Mycroft?"

"Why would anyone be in bed with Mycroft?"

Greg didn't bother to open his eyes. He would've just rolled them if he had. He felt Mycroft's body tense under his, and knew that his pain would spike from that muscle movement. Under the covers, his hand caressed Mycroft’s naked hip to say, _They don’t matter. Ignore them_.

Mrs. Hudson shushed the boys. "You'll understand when you're older."

Greg opened his eyes just wide enough to see her smiling sappily at John and Sherlock.

"I don't understand..." John shook his head and pointed at the bed.

Greg sat up and wiped his eyes. He looked down at Mycroft, whose eyes were still closed. This wasn't how he imagined coming out to his nephew would go. Here goes, Greg thought. "We are in bed together because that's what people do when they love each other."

John stared at him with disbelief. "But Uncle Greg. He's really hurt. Shouldn't you be in a different bed so, like, you don't roll over on him or smack him in the face like Sherlock does when he sleeps in my bed?"

Eyes still closed, Mycroft huffed out a laugh and then winced in pain.

“Oh. Well. Ah—” Greg sat speechless, his face red. “The doctor said it was okay. And I was careful not to touch him in the wrong place.”

The boys bit their lips and elbowed each other, squeaking as they held back laughter. John finally gasped, “Heh heh. Did you touch him in the right places?” Sherlock giggle-squealed at John’s dirty comment.

Greg’s jaw dropped and he sputtered, “I did not.” Mortified. He was _mortified_ to have his (non-existent) sex life giggled at.

Mycroft sniggered. “Heh heh. Was it hard not to?” He emphasized the word _hard_ making it sound as dirty as possible, which made the boys laugh harder.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Greg gave up. This was the man he chose to love? “And you.” He pointed at Mycroft, whose eyes appeared to be closed. “You get shot and suddenly get a sense of humor?”

Mrs. Hudson sat in an overstuffed armchair, still smiling like all was right with the world. “Mycroft, I called that number you gave me a while back, and I left a message. I’m assuming that’s how you wound up in this ritzy-titzy place instead of some semi-private room like the rest of us.”

Mycroft raised himself upright with the bed’s remote control. “When I can think more clearly, I shall make arrangements to be discharged and set up at home. I’m afraid it may take several days, though.”

“Then our Thanksgiving dinner will be turkey sandwiches in the hospital. I’ll make a list of the things you’ll to buy us, Greg.” Mrs. Hudson tapped away on her phone, ignoring them now that she had a task.

“How does she always get invited to our house?” Greg asked Mycroft, who didn’t miss the _our_.

“Apparently, it’s entirely too expensive for an old woman to heat her own home or feed herself. Her words, not mine.” Mycroft knew he was on thin ice with the word old.

~*~

 

Within a week, Mycroft was home in his own bed, supported by more pillows than he knew he owned. Greg fluffed the pillows and straightened the blankets as often as Mycroft would allow, which was only when he wasn’t on a business call. Which wasn’t that often.

But whenever Mycroft did allow him in, Greg tucked a note under one pillow or another, always within easy reach. Mycroft kept one at his fingertips to re-read. Often.

_“On Thanksgiving I'd make us go around the table and say what we’re thankful for. I’m thankful you needed a housekeeper and chose me. But mostly I’m thankful for you. You’re smart, funny, and good looking. And sexy. Once you’re healed, I’m gonna show you how fucking hot you are. I love you.”_

That’s why Mycroft followed the doctors’ every instruction to the letter; he didn’t want to take one minute longer to heal than necessary.

He desperately wanted Greg to show him how hot he is.


	10. Merry Christmas, Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is coming fast, and Mycroft is healing well. Christmas shopping, Christmas decorating. Christmas snogging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the late chapter. We have two gifts that keep on giving---(1) lice and (2) the head chest combination cold. I'm safe from both (frantically searching for wood on which I can knock!)
> 
>  
> 
> The title comes from the Carpenter's song, Merry Christmas Darling.
> 
> Huge thanks to 221Btls and GeronimoandbeMAGnificent.

“Sweets for the sweet!” Greg brought the tea tray to the living room, the commingled scents of tea and gingerbread arriving before he did. He stopped in front of where he assumed the coffee table stood. One had been there _before_ Mycroft’s briefcase exploded, covering the couch and table in paperwork. “You’re supposed to be recuperating. Relaxing. You know that, right?”

Mycroft looked up from his laptop, grateful for the interruption. “What delicious biscuits have you brought today?” He placed his computer onto the couch next to him, careful not to wrinkle any papers. He pulled the Bluetooth earbuds from his ear, removed the iPhone he’d rested on his chest and stacked it atop the second iPhone on the arm of the couch. He moved carefully, hoping it would seem he were being cautious rather than hoping Greg would forget Mycroft had been working too much.

“Resting. You’ve been shot, remember?”

 _That didn’t work_ , Mycroft sighed.

“You’ll heal faster if you rest. Plus…” Greg said as he poured tea into the mug, definitely not looking at Mycroft. His cheeks turned pink, and Mycroft saw the hint of Greg’s dimple.

“Plus?”

“Plus I really want you to be—at your best. For reasons.” Greg looked up as he added a cube of sugar to Mycroft’s tea. Mycroft’s smile broke slowly as he realized the full meaning of Greg’s words.

Greg handed over the tea and then offered a plate of still-warm cookies.

“Did you know gingerbread biscuits are my favorite?” Mycroft sipped his tea. Perfect. Perfect tea. Perfect biscuits. Perfect boyfriend.

“You’re not the only one who can Skype your mum.” Greg moved the computer to the coffee table so he could sit with Mycroft.

“My God. Did she show you that picture she keeps in her purse of me naked on the rug in front of the Christmas tree?” Mycroft pretended to cringe.

“No, but I’ll make sure to ask.” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we can recreate it.”

Mycroft looked into his mug, his cheeks pink. Greg watched the outline of Mycroft’s Adam’s apple as it moved with each hard swallow. He wanted time to explore every inch of that neck. _Well, starting with the neck_.

Greg loved Mycroft’s inexperience, his embarrassment when Greg flirted with him. Each time Mycroft blushed, Greg wanted him more.

Mycroft bit off one of the gingerbread man’s legs. “These are delicious,” he said to change the subject.

“You’re a biter, then.” Greg smiled innocently, and Mycroft choked on the cookie. “Don’t forget to swallow.”

“I think of swallowing. Constantly.”

That time, Greg coughed as he choked at the unexpected reply.

“I can’t do this. I really can’t.” Greg laughed as he pushed at the growing tent in his jeans. “I came in here to ask about decorating for Christmas. It’s December 15. If we wait any longer, we’ll miss it completely. Tell me where you keep the decorations, and I’ll start today.”

Mycroft stared at Greg blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Where do you keep your Christmas decorations? Lights, ornaments, inflatable Santas? You know.”

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change. “I do know what you mean. But I don’t own any.”

This time, it was Greg who looked incredulous. “You’ve lived here—”

“I’ve _owned_ this house for five years, but Christmas has been just another work day for me. In my position…”

“As a minor official for the British government.” Greg helpfully supplied.

Mycroft had the grace to laugh. “Yes. Not all countries celebrate, and our enemies of state _definitely_ do not.” He leaned forward to place his empty mug on the table and winced in pain. “I will have you know that I informed my superiors that I will be unavailable between Christmas and New Year’s.”

“We’ll have to make the time off worth it then,” Greg said, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis. “So. No decorations then. Have you begun shopping?”

Mycroft reached for his computer and phones. “My list today included contacting my—”

“Do not even say _personal shopper_.” Greg held up his hand to stop Mycroft. “Christmas is a time for family. Gifts take thought, not just money. What ideas do you have for Sherlock?”

Mycroft perked up. He reached for one of his phones and accessed a website. When the page opened, Mycroft thrust the phone at Greg. “It required a bit of apple-polishing, but I enrolled Sherlock in this course.”

Greg’s mouth fell open as he read the website. _“Hacking: A Serial Killer’s Online Skill or In-Person Preference._ Presented by Dr. Spencer Reid.” He pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. “Mycroft, this is an FBI course. For agents. Not 8-year old boys. And I’m not even going to ask how you got him enrolled.”

Mycroft grabbed his phone from Greg’s hand. “He will love this. It will be the highlight of the morning.”

Greg nodded, giving in to the truth. “What else were you thinking? What toys?”

“Toys? Why would he wish to have toys?”

Greg took Mycroft’s right hand and helped him stand up. “Because he’s a _kid_. That’s it. Coat on. We’re going Christmas shopping.”

“We’re out of coffee!” a voice called from the kitchen. “Buy some while you’re out, please.”

“We would not run out as often if you stopped sneaking in to drink it.” Mycroft bit his lip so he wouldn’t snicker. He found that a good sass was so often ruined by ill-timed laughter.

“You can’t seriously be blaming me, Mycroft Holmes.” Mrs. Hudson waved the empty carafe through the cracked-open kitchen door. “You drink coffee like you own stock in Maxwell House!”

Mycroft covered his mouth so he wouldn’t laugh. He didn’t dare glance at Greg, who was barely holding on.

“And I hear you laughing in there,” Mrs. Hudson mumbled through her mouthful of gingerbread. “These need more molasses, Greg.”

“Then stop eating them, old lady.” Their laughter burst out, but Mycroft added my shoulder hurts as he shook with giggles.

“Who are you calling old lady? I’m young enough that Billy—”

“Enough!” Greg stuck his fingers in his ears. “Yes, we’ll get coffee,” he said to Mrs. Hudson in the next room. He pointed to Mycroft and said, “Let’s go.”

Mycroft insisted that sweatpants and one of Greg's little league shirts wasn't appropriate for him to wear in public. Greg opened his mouth to argue that he wore it all the time but then decided he would not like where that discussion would lead. Mycroft disappeared into his room to change his clothing while Greg cleaned up the remnants of the baking. And loaded the dishwasher. And transferred the wash to the dryer. And chatted with Mrs. Hudson.

"Mycroft! What the hell is taking so long." Greg shouted up the stairs, assuming he'd gotten caught in a business call or email.

Mycroft opened his bedroom door and waddled to the top of the staircase. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin high but he wouldn't meet Greg's eyes. In the time he'd been dressing, Mycroft had only managed to pull his trousers up to mid-hip. and he wore no shirt.

Greg's heart melted. "Oh baby. I'm so sorry. I forgot about your shoulder. That was really stupid of me." He climbed the stairs and hugged Mycroft, who looked slightly less pitiful. “How have you done this by yourself.”

“It hasn’t been easy.” Mycroft pushed out his bottom lip in a pout. “But I’ve been terribly brave.”

He allowed Greg to lead him back into the master suite. Mycroft closed the bedroom door behind them, the click of the lock resounding in the room’s silence. Greg turned. Mycroft leaned against the door, his trousers, sitting mid-hip, doing nothing to restrain his cock that pushed up past the zipper. Greg’s breath caught; hell, he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

“We can’t.” Greg whined as he smiled. “You know she’ll just interrupt us or the boys will come home.”

Mycroft held Greg’s gaze, not looking away. He needed Greg to see how much he wanted him.

Greg watched Mycroft slick his palm with his saliva and stroke himself, thrusting his hips forward. Greg’s knees weakened at Mycroft’s small, breathy moans. “We can’t,” he whispered, drawn to Mycroft.

He brushed his lips over Mycroft’s, then returned for a full kiss as he slipped his hand to the back of Mycroft’s head and pulled him closer. Between their bodies, Greg could feel the slow pull and twist of Mycroft’s hand. God, he wanted that. The feel of Mycroft in his hand. In his mouth. Inside him.

“Are you going to get coffee or what? I don’t have all day, you know.” Mrs. Hudson’s voice shattered their moment. Greg dropped his head to Mycroft’s good shoulder and laughed in defeat.

“Maybe someday, in a place with no kids and no neighbors, we can finish what we start.” Greg tucked Mycroft’s cock into his trousers and zipped them. He cradled Mycroft’s face in his hands and kissed him lightly.

Mycroft nodded in resigned agreement. “To the mall, then.”

 

~*~

 

A cheerful Muzak version of _Deck the Halls_ played throughout the Fairfield Towne Center, an indoor shopping mall with high-end stores and expensive holiday decorations. Mycroft walked slowly through the food court entrance, astonished by the choices. He craned his neck to see every restaurant, to take in every scent. Overwhelmed, he stopped.

Greg, who’d gone to the mall on a mission, finally realized he was walking alone. “What is it with you Holmes boys?” he said, looking back at Mycroft, who stood gawking. “Didn’t anyone ever take you two shopping?”

Mycroft couldn’t answer; he was transfixed by the bakery kiosk, the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon buns and coffee choices bewitching him.

Greg checked the time on his phone and surrendered. “We can spare a few minutes for you to—” He hadn’t completed the sentence before Mycroft bee-lined to the busy bakery to order.

Two coffees. Two cinnamon buns, each roughly the size of their hands. The plastic fork and knife were useless to Mycroft, and he refused to ask Greg to cut it for him. Abandoning all of his good breeding, he picked up the warm pastry and bit into it. He chewed slowly, immersing himself in the experience. When he’d swallowed the last bite, Mycroft moaned in contentment, sucking the last of the icing from his fingertips.

 _Jesus Christ_. Greg watched Mycroft drag his teeth up each finger and then flick his tongue over his lips to catch any remaining trace of sugar. “You need to stop that. Right. Now.” Greg gripped his cardboard cup so hard he was afraid he would wind up with a lap full of scalding coffee.

Mycroft played innocent. “What? This?” He scraped his teeth over his bottom lip and then ran his tongue over the same spot.

Greg leaned closer, wanting to grab Mycroft by his lapels and lay him out there on the food-court table. “I swear to God. If you don’t stop, I’m gonna drag you to the men’s room right now. And that is not how I want our first time to be.”

Chastened, Mycroft wiped his hand and lips on a paper napkin. He pushed his chair away from the table. “Alright. We can go.”

“No. I really can’t.” Greg’s eyes flicked to his lap and back to Mycroft, who smiled and sat back down.

~*~

By early afternoon, Greg and Mycroft had hit every store that could possibly pertain to two boys and one neighbor in the 1 million square feet of shopping. And that wasn’t hyperbole. Mycroft had done the math.

“I need to go one last place,” Greg said as they rode the escalator to the lower level. He checked the list he’d scribbled earlier on a napkin as he had waited for his erection to subside.

“ _What is that?_ ” Mycroft pointed to a gingerbread cabin surrounded by white Christmas trees decorated with twinkling lights. Two velvet ropes created a path that wound through the trees and ended at an empty throne in front of the cabin. Several elves entertained children waiting by the throne.

“It’s Santa’s village.” Greg shook his head and rolled his eyes. _If I had a dollar for every blank stare Mycroft and Sherlock shot me when I made a cultural reference…_ “Kids come here to see Santa. They sit on his lap, tell him what they want for Christmas, get their picture taken.”

Another dollar.

“Come on.” Greg took the bag from Mycroft’s right hand and laced their fingers. “Let’s go see Santa.”

With a _Ho ho ho! Hello boys and girls!_ Santa made his way back to his cabin.

“You are not allowed to deduce this Santa.” Greg warned Mycroft with a finger in his face. “Not. One. Thing. And especially not in front of the little kids.”

Mycroft nodded, his eyes twinkling as he sucked on the miniature candy cane the elf had given him to stop asking questions about #ElfLife.

“Welcome, young man! Don’t be shy!” Santa said, looking down as he fussed with his brass belt buckle. “Oh my,” he stuttered when he looked up. “I don’t think you’ll fit on my lap, but let’s see what we can do.” Without missing a beat, Santa stood. “What would you like for Christmas? You can whisper it in my ear if you like.”

Which would have been fine, but the top of Santa’s head came only to Mycroft’s shoulder. Smiling brightly, Mycroft leaned down and cupped his good hand around Santa’s ear and whispered. When he stood up, Mycroft said, “You won’t tell, right?” Santa nodded solemnly.

“Your turn young man.” Santa beckoned Greg. “What would you like for Christmas?”

“Privacy, Santa. I’ve got everything else I need.” Greg winked at Mycroft, who blushed.

They posed for a photo with Santa in the center with Mycroft on his left and Greg on his right. Santa smiled at the camera, but Greg and Mycroft looked only at each other. {That photograph in a dollar store plastic frame held a place of honor on Mycroft’s bedside table everywhere they would ever live.}

“You’ve never done that before?” Greg asked, knowing Mycroft had to be stretching the truth.

“Never once, Gregory. And now, I am no longer a Santa virgin.”

Greg almost choked on his mini candy cane.

Once he could breathe again, Greg led Mycroft down a short side hallway to the VANS store where Soulja Boy blasted through the store’s wide arch. As Greg searched for the limited edition New York Mets slip-on shoes that were at the top of John’s wish list, Mycroft gravitated toward the skateboards. Lost in thought, he spun the polyurethane wheels and slid his finger across the high-gloss skateboard deck.

“Did you skate?” Greg asked, his breath tickling the curved ridge of Mycroft’s ear.

“Many years ago, when I had more time. And I hadn’t been shot.” Mycroft joked. “I enjoyed it once I learned to spend more time on the board than on my arse.” He spun the wheel one last time before he followed Greg to the register.

“Let me show you something.” Greg dropped the shoebox into a larger shopping bag and led the way to the back of the store.

There was no back to the store.

It expanded into an indoor skate park that would be packed once the kids got home from school. Mycroft bounced in place as he pointed out the best parts, yelling to be heard over _Baba O’Reilly_. “It has an easy hip for blasting big airs and really fast metal coping to complement its smooth hardwood surface.”

Greg nodded at the nonsense and drifted away to find out more about the park. When Greg looked back, Mycroft was engrossed in a conversation with one of the skaters. Even though he looked like he belonged in a corporate office, Mycroft seemed absolutely comfortable.

~*~

As they walked back to the car, Mycroft explained more about the skate park in words Greg didn’t understand. He fell silent as they stored the bags in the trunk of the BMW.

“When Sherlock displayed an interest in baseball, I researched it extensively. I understand there is something known as Spring Training, and all real fans must make the pilgrimage at least once in their lives.”

Greg turned to Mycroft. “Yeah, it’s amazing. Why?”

“Perhaps, if you thought John might like it, and I believe Sherlock would also enjoy it, for Christmas we could give—”

Mycroft never finished; Greg launched himself at Mycroft {careful of his injured shoulder} and kissed the rest of the sentence from him. “He would freakin love it. But your work—”

“I will make time.” He answered simply and kissed Greg again. “Let’s go home.”

Greg had visions of an empty house and a naked Mycroft, but as the BMW pulled into the driveway, the school’s jitney arrived. “Thank God we put the bags in the trunk. If the boys even think we went shopping, we’ll never get any peace.”

Greg helped a flagging Mycroft into the house and made sure he was comfortable on the couch. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said to the boys who were starting their homework. “Remember. Santa’s watching.” The boys laughed as Greg pointed two fingers from his eyes to theirs.

He returned with pizza and sent the boys to the Range Rover to grab the remaining bags.

“Look at all this stuff!” John pawed through the bags, pulling out silver garland, multicolor twinkling lights, and boxes of ornaments.

Mycroft eyeballed the bags from a distance, wary of getting too close to the boys who were opening packages and flinging cardboard tops. “But we don’t have a—”

“Tree!” Greg pushed the front door open with his behind, wrestling a 9’ Christmas tree into the house. To a chorus of oohs and aahs, he set the tree up in the base, with only a few cusses slipping out. John declared it the best tree ever as the four picked at their pizza, more interested in decorating.

They strung the lights, filled the tree with ornaments, wrapped the garland in and around the branches. It was well past the boys’ bedtimes when they finished. John and Sherlock sat between Mycroft and Greg and watched the lights twinkle in the dark.

“Every year my mom gave us a special ornament.” Greg disappeared into the kitchen and returned with one last bag. He handed John a Mr. Met ornament. Sherlock’s was an old-fashioned magnifying glass.

With a chorus of _thank you_ , Greg scooted the boys over so he could sit next to Mycroft.

“My mom would have really liked this, Uncle Greg.” John sighed. “You make a good mom. She’d be really happy.”

Mycroft slipped his hand in Greg’s and squeezed. Neither man dared to speak or look at each other, afraid they might cry.

Sherlock broke the heavy silence. “I know where the gifts are hidden.” He bounced as he sat on the couch, overwhelmed by the evening’s excitement. Or the hot chocolate.

“No you don’t,” Mycroft answered as Greg tapped Mycroft’s leg to remind him to be strong. “Because I haven’t bought any yet. Besides, Santa’s going to bring most of them.”

“There’s no such thing as Santa Claus. He’s an artificial construct created by—” Sherlock said with disdain.

“Are you willing to bet your Christmas on it?” Greg raised an eyebrow and sang, “He sees you when you’re sleeping; he knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.”

Sherlock pinched his lips closed and fell back against the couch, ramping up to a proper strop and then remembered the lyrics. He chose to remain quiet and glare at the tree instead of his brother.

“I may have something for you, too,” Greg said to Mycroft. He reached into the bag and brought out a frame ornament with their picture with Santa already in it.

“Gregory, it’s—how did—I love it.”

“Ugh, are you guys gonna get mushy?” John groaned in pain before Mycroft could kiss Greg.

“Yes, they are. Come on, John. Let’s go look at your baseball almanac again.” The two boys climbed the stairs whispering to each other.

“No way he’s real.” John didn’t sound as sure as he wished.

“I don’t know. He could be real. With wormhole technology and drones…”

The two men laughed and cuddled on the couch, watching the lights flicker and twinkle.

 

~*~

 

The next ten days rushed by in a flurry of wrapping paper and tape, of pots of coffee and cookies fresh from the oven. Of two young boys plotting and searching for hiding spots. Of two young men worried what the other might think of their gifts.

Christmas Eve dawned frigid with heavy clouds, and the weatherman forecasted a dusting of snow. The snow began before noon, a slow and steady fall. By the time Greg convinced the boys to shut down the Santa Tracker and go to bed, more than a foot had fallen.

Mycroft seemed distracted all evening, checking out the window and wondering about Mrs. Hudson. They hadn’t seen her all day. Greg thought about going to check on her, but the image of Billy in Mrs. Hudson’s pink chenille robe was too vivid, too frightening. Instead, he texted. She was warm and snug in her bed; she didn’t say with whom and Greg didn’t ask.

They tucked the presents under the tree, the stacks larger than either had expected. Then Greg pulled the couch in front of the fire, and they enjoyed the warmth of their bodies pressed together, their fingers entwined when they weren’t seeking skin hidden by wool and cotton. The push and pull of their kisses, lips exploring, teeth nipping.

They could go further. They both understood that.

They’d have the privacy.

Yet for tonight, this was enough. It was perfect.

Still, they couldn’t bear to leave each other for the solitude of their own beds. Greg pulled Mycroft down next to him, and the two lay slotted together in front of the dying fire, a blanket thrown carelessly over them, sometimes silent. Sometimes planning their future. The finally fell asleep before dawn.

Sherlock and John galumphed down the stairs later than either man expected. Mycroft lifted his head from Greg’s shoulder to check the time. “Almost 9am. That’s a Christmas morning miracle for Sherlock.”

Mycroft and Greg sent them back upstairs to change, giving the two men time to straighten their own clothes and avoid as many questions as they could.

Once the boys were dressed, Mycroft declared, “Breakfast first. Then presents.”

Greg attempted to negotiate. “My, they’re just kids. Let’s—”

“Breakfast first. Then presents.” His tone was non-negotiable.

Although the boys argued and cajoled, they settled at the table discussing what they’d seen, how many gifts were under the tree, how high the piles were stacked, to whom the biggest boxes belonged. When they finished breakfast, Mycroft looked at his phone and declared it _time to open presents_.

The boys ran to the living room to attack the gifts followed leisurely by the adults. Not one gift had been opened yet, and John glared at the traitorous adults. “There aren’t names on any of them.”

Mycroft smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Figure it out.”

“Give me a moment, John. I’ll figure it out.” Sherlock surveyed the scene from several angles. “It’s not by wrapping paper, because there are more than four styles. It’s not bows or ribbon. It’s not by how they’re sorted…Wait. Let me think.”

Mycroft and Greg sat back on the loveseat, sides and thighs pressed against each other, watching the boys try to work through the puzzle, which was their first gift.

“Sherlock—”

“Not now, John. I’m thinking.”

John waited as long as he could and said, “But Sherlock, I’ve figured it out.”

“Doubtful.” The word slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop himself. John smacked Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Don’t be a butt. Listen. The packages have nametags but no names are written on them. Why?” John watched Sherlock devour that information and go to work dividing the gifts by design on the tag. A small pile of tags with doves. A small pile of tags with trees. A super-tall pile with Santa.

“I’m sorry. I thought that was it.” John sat back on the floor, looking for what he’d missed.

“That was it!” Sherlock jumped up and rearranged the tall pile into two smaller piles: one with Santa name tags on angel wrapping paper decorated and the other with Santa name tags on Santa puppy wrapping paper.

“Excellent, Sherlock.” Mycroft glowed with pride. “But which pile belongs to whom?”

Sherlock pointed to the puppy paper. “That dog looks like Redbeard! I think these are for me.”

Everything about John’s expression said, _Screw this, I’ve had enough_ and he took a box from the angel pile and shredded the wrapping. “Aaaagh! Mets Vans! Thank you!”

The next 20 minutes were a blizzard of shredded paper and squeals and _thank yous_. Spring Training was by far the best gift, even better than the FBI course.

The boys planned every minute of it on Sherlock’s new iPad while Greg and Mycroft exchanged gifts. When the gifts had been opened, sweaters and ties and obligatory socks, Greg reached into the couch cushions and withdrew an envelope. “Merry Christmas. I hope you like it.” He sounded nervous as he handed it to Mycroft.

Mycroft turned the plain envelope over, looking for some clue. Nothing. Greg wouldn’t offer any hints. “Just open it.”

Mycroft slit open the envelope and yipped. He dropped the papers and wrapped his hand behind Greg’s neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss.

“Children are present, you two. Impressionable children.” Sherlock tapped their shoulders to separate them. “What was so great?”

“Gregory gave me a skateboard trainer and a new longboard that I can pick out at the skate park. Don’t. Say. A. Word.” He warned Sherlock, whose sniggers had already started.

“But not until you’re healed!” Greg reminded Mycroft, as if he could forget.

At that moment, the doorbell chimed, the beginning notes of _Für Elise_ ringing through the noisy house. Mycroft smiled, knowing exactly why and who was at the door.

“Why am I not surprised that Mrs. Hudson’s using the front door like a guest?” Greg asked. He disentangled himself from Mycroft and the mess on the couch. “Merry Christmas!” Greg said as he opened the door. To his shock, it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson.

“Mummy! Daddy!” Sherlock shouted over the noise and ran to bear hug his parents who stood in the doorway.

“Merry Christmas, Gregory.” Mummy shook his hand, her voice warm and happy. She brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Thank you for taking care of my boys.” He barely heard the whispered words over Sherlock’s excited chatter.

Father removed his overcoat and took Mummy’s from her. “Reporting for duty, as requested.”

Greg turned to Mycroft for an explanation, but he was caught up in the pure joy on Mycroft’s face. “This is why you were so worried about the snow and the roads!”

“Mycroft asked us to come so you two could get away.” Mummy handed Greg two hotel room keys. “There’s a beautiful suite at the Fairfield Inn waiting for you, and we’ve arranged for a room service tab. That way, you won’t have to get dressed to eat.”

“Mother!” Father chastised her, pretending to be scandalized. “Go, you two. Before we change our minds.”

Mycroft slipped his right arm around Greg’s waist. “You arranged all this?” Greg asked, joy bubbling up and overflowing.

Mycroft nodded and kissed Greg’s cheek. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't be angry with me for leaving them high and dry. I am writing one more chapter at the Inn. but when I signed up for this fic, I didn't sign up for an E rating, and I didn't want to offend anyone. 
> 
> I promise. It's 1/2 done!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments. And I'm not above begging. 
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from the Squeeze song, [Tempted](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmlCJFaUnKI)


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